Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 9

right, my love, all right! I hear.
Mrs. T. I must go round before lunch. JANE, send Miss SEATON to
me in the breakfast-room. (She goes back to her desk; presently Miss
MARJORY SEATON enters the room; she is young and extremely
pretty, with an air of dejected endurance.) Oh, Miss SEATON, just
copy out these menus for me, in your neatest writing, and see that the
French is all right. You will have plenty of time for it, as I shall take
Miss GWENDOLEN out myself this morning. By the way, I shall
expect you to appear in the drawing-room this evening before dinner. I
hope you have a suitable frock?
Miss Seaton. I have a black one with lace sleeves and heliotrope chiffon,
if that will do--it was made in Paris.
Mrs. T. You are fortunate to be able to command such luxuries. All my
dresses are made in the Grove.
Miss Seat. (biting her lip). Mine was made when we--before I---- [She
checks herself.
Mrs. T. You need not remind me quite so often that your circumstances
were formerly different, Miss SEATON, for I am perfectly aware of the
fact. Otherwise, I should not feel justified in bringing you in contact,
even for so short a time, with my relations and friends, who are most
particular. I think that is all I wanted you for at present. Stop, you are
forgetting the menus.
[Miss SEATON collects the cards and goes out with compressed lips
as JANE enters.
Jane. Another telegram, if you please, M'm, and Cook would like to

speak to you about the pheasants.
[Illustration: THE POET LAUREATE OF THE MUSIC HALLS. A
STUDY. [See p. 33.
Mrs. T. Oh, dear me, JANE! I wish you wouldn't come and startle me
with your horrid telegrams--there, give it to me. (Reading.) "Wife down,
violent influenza. Must come without her, TOOMER." (Resentfully.)
Again! and I know she's had it twice since the spring--it's too
tiresomely inconsid--no, it isn't--it's the very best thing she could do.
Now we shall be only twelve, and I needn't order that man from
BLANKLEY'S, after all. Poor dear woman, I must really write her a
nice sympathetic little note--so fortunate!
SCENE II.--Mrs. TIDMARSH'S Bedroom--Time 7:15. Mrs. T. has just
had her hair dressed by her Maid.
Mrs. T. You might have given me more of a fringe than that,
PINNIFER. You don't make nearly so much of my hair as you used to!
(PINNIFER discreetly suppress the obvious retort.) Well, I suppose
that must do. I shan't require you any more. Go down and see if the
lamps in the drawing-room are smelling. (PINNIFER goes; sounds of
ablutions are heard from Mr. T.'s dressing-room.) MONTAGUE, is
that you? I never heard you come in.
Mr. T.'s Voice (indistinctly.) Only just this moment come up, my dear.
Been putting out the wine.
Mrs. T. You always will leave everything to the last. No, don't come in.
What? How can I hear what you say when you keep on splashing and
spluttering like that?
Mr. T.'s Voice (from beneath a towel.) That dozen of Champagne Uncle
GABRIEL sent has run lower than I thought--only two bottles and a
pint left. And he can't drink that Saumur.
Mrs. T. Two bottles and a half ought to be ample, if SEAKALE
manages properly--among twelve.

Mr. T.'s V. Twelve, my love? you mean fourteen!
Mrs. T. I mean nothing of the sort. Mrs. TOOMER'S got influenza
again--luckily, so of course we shall be just twelve.
Mr. T.'s V. MARIA, why didn't you tell me that before? Because I say,
look here!----
[He half opens the door.
Mrs. T. I won't have you coming in here all over soap, there's nothing
to get excited about. Twelve's a very convenient number.
Mr. T.'s V. Twelve! Yes--but how about that fellow you told me to
order from BLANKLEY'S? He'll be the thirteenth!
Mrs. T. MONTAGUE, don't say you went and ordered him, after I
expressly said you were not to mind, and that I would see about it
myself! You heard me call after you from the front door?
Mr. T.'s V. I--I understood you to say that I was to mind and see to it
myself; and so I went there the very first thing. The Manager assured
me he would send us a person accustomed to the best society, who
would give every satisfaction. I couldn't be expected to know you had
changed your mind!
Mrs. T. How could you be so idiotic! We simply can't sit down thirteen.
Uncle will think we did it on purpose to shorten his life, MONTAGUE,
do something--write, and put him off, quick--do you hear?
Mr. T.'s V. (plaintively). My love, I can't write while I'm like this--and
I've no pen and ink in here,