The 'Mind the Paint' Girl. Arthur Wing Pinero

if it’s too severe a strain on you.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      To Gladys, as the girl moves to the door. Gladys, we’ll ’ave tea.

      Gladys.

      At the door. You can’t till it’s ready.

      Lily.

      Calmly. Cheek!

      Gladys retires.

      Bland.

      Who has strolled across to Lily, indolently. Why do you retain the services of that tousled-headed hussy?

      Lily.

      With conviction. Oh, she’s a little under the weather, but she’s a perfect servant.

      Bland.

      To Mrs. Upjohn. Ma, you look blooming.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Wish I could return the compliment, Mr. Bland.

      Bland.

      To Roper, who is wearing a waistcoat of rather a pronounced pattern. Congratulations on your waistcoat, Lal.

      Roper.

      Joining Jimmie, annoyed. Now, no personalities.

      Lily.

      Giving Bland her hand. Vincent, yours is one of the loveliest presents I’ve had to-day. Remerciement! How’s that for a French accent?

      Bland.

      Dropping his eyeglass. You cat!

      Lily.

      Why——?

      Bland.

      You know I’ve given you nothing, not even a penny nosegay.

      Jimmie.

      Ha, ha, ha!

      Lily.

      Raising herself on her elbow. On my honour—! Vincent dear, I swear I thought——!

      Bland.

      The funds are too low. Replacing his eyeglass. I did go so far as to price a bangle at Sellby’s, but that was before a certain event yesterday.

      Jimmie.

      What horses did you back, Vincent? I won a fiver, through Jerry Grimwood.

      Roper.

      To Bland. You are a patent ass. Why don’t you leave betting alone?

      Bland.

      To Roper, flaring up. Why don’t you leave your City muck alone?

      Lily.

      Putting her feet to the floor, imperiously. That’ll do. Be quiet, you two! I won’t have any wrangling in my house. Run away and play, all of you. I want to speak to Vincent for a minute privately. With a gesture. Uncle Lal—Jimmie—Nicko—To Mrs. Upjohn. Scoot, mother!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Oh, dear, wot a child!

      Roper, Jimmie, Jeyes, and Mrs. Upjohn move away and Lily beckons to Bland.

      Lily.

      Vin.

      Bland.

      Close to her, with a wry face. Mercy!

      Lily.

      In a low voice. You’ve broken your word to me, then? Through her teeth. Those damned horses!

      Bland.

      Cooling had a tip from the stable——

      Lily.

      Cooling! Morrie Cooling has no children; only a fat wife. You’ve a darling little wife and three kiddies. How much did you drop yesterday?

      Bland.

      Shan’t say.

      Lily.

      Rising and touching his arm. Oh, Vincent!

      She looks round, to assure herself that she is unobserved. Mrs. Upjohn and Roper are seated at the tea-table with their heads together, talking; Jimmie is at the piano, fingering out a piece of music; Jeyes is half hidden in the arm-chair facing the settee at the back. Lily tiptoes to the writing-table and seats herself there as Gladys reappears showing in the Baron von Rettenmayer.

      Von Rettenmayer.

      A tall, fair young man of three-and-thirty, speaking in thick, guttural tones—advancing to Lily. Aha, goddess! Gladys withdraws. Many habby returns of the day!

      Lily.

      H’sh! I’m busy for a moment, Baron.

      Von Rettenmayer.

      To Lily—shaking hands with Bland. A thousand bardons.

      Lily.

      Talk to mother and Jimmie.

      Von Rettenmayer.

      With bleasure. Going to Mrs. Upjohn and Roper and shaking hands with them. How are you, my dear Ma? How are you, Jimmie? Waving a hand to Roper and Jeyes. My dear Rober! My dear Neegolas!

      Jimmie.

      To Von Rettenmayer, mimicking him. Rober! Neegolas! Why don’t they provide you with throat lozenges at the Embassy, Baron?

      Von Rettenmayer laughs. Lily has quickly opened a drawer in the writing-table and produced a cheque-book. After another glance over her shoulder, she sweeps the presents aside and writes. Then she replaces the cheque-book, rises, and returns to Bland. Again there is a loud guffaw from Von Rettenmayer in response to some sally of Jimmie’s.

      Lily.

      To Bland, folding a cheque and slipping it into his hand. Promise—promise you won’t make another bet.

      Bland.

      Unfolding the cheque. Your cheque?