The 'Mind the Paint' Girl. Arthur Wing Pinero

not?

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      You may well ask. ’E’s bent on callin’ it “The ‘Mind the Paint’ Girl.”

      Roper.

      What’s wrong with that? Everybody’ll recognise who that is.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Unconvinced. ’Er name’s printed on all ’er photos.

      Farncombe.

      The first time I had the pleasure of seeing your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Upjohn, a man next to me said, “Here comes the ‘Mind the Paint’ girl.”

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Cheering up. Oh, well, p’r’aps young Morgan knows ’is own business best. Let’s ’ope so, at any rate.

      Roper.

      By the tea-table, beckoning to Farncombe. Farncombe——

      Farncombe.

      To Roper. Eh? To Mrs. Upjohn, rising. Excuse me.

      Farncombe joins Roper, whereupon Mrs. Upjohn goes to the writing-table and, seating herself there, examines the jewellery delightedly.

      Roper.

      To Farncombe, in a whisper. Do me a favour.

      Farncombe.

      Certainly.

      Roper.

      Looking at his watch. It’s only half-past four. Take a turn round the Square. I’ve some business to talk over with the old lady.

      Farncombe.

      Nodding to Roper and then coming forward and addressing Mrs. Upjohn. I—er—I think I’ll go for a little walk and come back later on, if I may.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Contentedly. Oh, jest as you like.

      Farncombe.

      Moving towards the door. In about a quarter-of-an-hour.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      If we don’t see you again, I’ll tell Lil you’ve been ’ere.

      Farncombe.

      At the door. Oh, but you will; you will see me again.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Well, please yourself and you please your dearest friend, as Lil’s dad used to say.

      Farncombe.

      Thank you—thank you very much.

      He disappears, closing the door after him.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      To Roper, looking up. I b’lieve you gave that young man the ’int to go, Uncle.

      Roper.

      I did; told him I wanted to talk business with you.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Business? Resuming her inspection of the trinkets. This is a ’andsome thing Mr. Grimwood’s sent ’er.

      Roper.

      His hands in his trouser-pockets, contemplating Mrs. Upjohn desperately. Upon my soul, Ma, you’re a champion!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Now wot ’ave I done!

      Roper.

      Well, you might spread yourself a little over young Farncombe.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Spread myself! Why should I?

      Roper.

      Lord Farncombe!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      I treat ’em all alike; so does Lil. ’E’s not the first title we’ve ’ad ’ere, not by a dozen.

      Roper.

      No, but damn it all—! I beg your pardon——

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Beaming. So you ought—swearin’ like a trooper.

      Roper.

      This chap’s in love with her.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Oh, they’re all in love with ’er; or ’ave been, one time or another.

      Roper.

      Yes, but they’re not all Farncombes and they’re not all marrying men. I’m prepared to bet my boots that if Lil and young Farncombe could be thrown together——! Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table as Mrs. Upjohn rises and comes forward. Here! Do talk it over.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Placidly. Where’s the use o’ talkin’ it over? It’s wastin’ one’s breath. Moving to the settee by the piano. My Lil doesn’t want to marry—any’ow not yet awhile; she’s ’appy and contented as she is. Sitting and smoothing out her skirt. When she does, I s’pose it’ll be the Captain.

      Roper.

      Between his teeth. The Captain! Quietly. Ma, the day Lil marries Nicko Jeyes, you and she’ll see the last o’ me.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Oh, don’t say that, Uncle.

      Roper.

      I do say it. The disappointment ’ud be more than I could stand. Selfish, designing beggar!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Now, no low abuse.

      Roper.

      A fellow who gets on the soft side of Lil before she’s out of her teens—before she’s made any position to speak of; and when she has made a position, and he’s practically on his uppers, sticks to her like a limpet!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      She sticks to ’im, too. It meant a deal to Lil in ’er ’umble days, reck’lect—receivin’ attentions from a gentleman in the army. She doesn’t forget that.

      Roper.

      Jumping up and walking about. It’s cruel; that’s what it is—it’s cruel. Here’s Gwennie Harker and Maidie Trevail both married to peers’ sons, and Eva Shafto to a baronet—all of ’em Pandora girls; and Lil—she’s left high and dry, engaged to a nobody! It’s cruel!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      She’s not ackshally engaged.

      Roper.

      Ho, ho!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      The ideer was, when ’e shirked goin’ to India an’ gave up soldierin’, so as to be near ’er, that ’e should get something to do in London; then they were to be engaged.

      Roper.

      Sarcastically. Oh, to be just, I admit he’s in no hurry. He’s been a whole year looking for something to do in London—looking for it at Catani’s and at the Pandora bars!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      ’E ’as to be on the spot at night, to bring Lil ’ome after ’er work.

      Roper.

      Exactly! And when a decent, eligible young chap comes along, and means business, he’s choked off by finding Nicko Jeyes in possession. Stopping before Mrs. Upjohn. But, I say!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Wot?

      Roper.

      Farncombe