Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes. Anstey F.

resignedly). It's my belief there'll be a jolly row when I do go in; but it's not my fault!

      Tredwell (opening the door of the Amber Boudoir). Lady Cantire and Lady Maisie Mull (To Spurrell.) What name, if you please, sir?

      Spurrell (dolefully). You can say "James Spurrell" – you needn't bellow it, you know!

      Tredwell (ignoring this suggestion). Mr. James Spurrell.

      Spurrell (to himself, on the threshold). If I don't get the chuck for this, I shall be surprised, that's all!

[He enters.

      In a Fly.

      Undershell (to himself). Alone with a lovely girl, who has no suspicion, as yet, that I am the poet whose songs have thrilled her with admiration! Could any situation be more romantic? I think I must keep up this little mystification as long as possible.

      Phillipson (to herself). I wonder who he is? Somebody's Man, I suppose. I do believe he's struck with me. Well, I've no objection. I don't see why I shouldn't forget Jim now and then – he's quite forgotten me! (Aloud.) They might have sent a decent carriage for us instead of this ramshackle old summerhouse. We shall be hours getting to the house at this rate!

      Undershell (gallantly). For my part, I care not how long we may be. I feel so unspeakably content to be where I am.

      Phillipson (disdainfully). In this mouldy, lumbering old concern? You must be rather easily contented, then!

      Undershell (dreamily). It travels only too swiftly. To me it is a veritable enchanted car, drawn by a magic steed.

      Phillipson. I don't know whether he's magic – but I'm sure he's lame. And stuffiness is not my notion of enchantment.

      Undershell. I'm not prepared to deny the stuffiness. But cannot you guess what has transformed this vehicle for me – in spite of its undeniable shortcomings – or must I speak more plainly still?

      Phillipson. Well, considering the shortness of our acquaintance, I must say you've spoken quite plainly enough as it is!

      Undershell. I know I must seem unduly expansive, and wanting in reserve; and yet that is not my true disposition. In general, I feel an almost fastidious shrinking from strangers —

      Phillipson (with a little laugh). Really? I shouldn't have thought it!

      Undershell. Because, in the present case, I do not – I cannot – feel as if we were strangers. Some mysterious instinct led me, almost from the first, to associate you with a certain Miss Maisie Mull.

      Phillipson. Well, I wonder how you discovered that. Though you shouldn't have said "Miss" —Lady Maisie Mull is the proper form.

      Undershell (to himself). Lady Maisie Mull! I attach no meaning to titles – and yet nothing but rank could confer such perfect ease and distinction. (Aloud.) I should have said Lady Maisie Mull, undoubtedly – forgive my ignorance. But at least I have divined you. Does nothing tell you who and what I may be?

      Phillipson. Oh, I think I can give a tolerable guess at what you are.

      Undershell. You recognize the stamp of the Muse upon me, then?

      Phillipson. Well, I shouldn't have taken you for a groom exactly.

      Undershell (with some chagrin). You are really too flattering!

      Phillipson. Am I? Then it's your turn now. You might say you'd never have taken me for a lady's maid!

      Undershell. I might – if I had any desire to make an unnecessary and insulting remark.

      Phillipson. Insulting? Why, it's what I am! I'm maid to Lady Maisie. I thought your mysterious instinct told you all about it?

      Undershell (to himself – after the first shock). A lady's maid! Gracious Heaven! What have I been saying – or rather, what haven't I? (Aloud.) To – to be sure it did. Of course, I quite understand that. (To himself.) Oh, confound it all, I wish we were at Wyvern!

      Phillipson. And, after all, you've never told me who you are. Who are you?

      Undershell (to himself). I must not humiliate this poor girl! (Aloud.) I? Oh – a very insignificant person, I assure you! (To himself.) This is an occasion in which deception is pardonable – even justifiable!

      Phillipson. Oh, I knew that much. But you let out just now you had to do with a Mews. You aren't a rough-rider, are you?

      Undershell. N – not exactly– not a rough-rider. (To himself.) Never on a horse in my life! – unless I count my Pegasus. (Aloud.) But you are right in supposing I am connected with a muse – in one sense.

      Phillipson. I said so, didn't I? Don't you think it was rather clever of me to spot you, when you're not a bit horsey-looking?

      Undershell (with elaborate irony). Accept my compliments on a power of penetration which is simply phenomenal!

      Phillipson (giving him a little push). Oh, go along – it's all talk with you – I don't believe you mean a word you say!

      Undershell (to himself). She's becoming absolutely vulgar. (Aloud.) I don't – I don't; it's a manner I have; you mustn't attach any importance to it – none whatever!

      Phillipson. What! Not to all those high-flown compliments? Do you mean to tell me you are only a gay deceiver, then?

      Undershell (in horror). Not a deceiver, no; and decidedly not gay. I mean I did mean the compliments, of course. (To himself.) I mustn't let her suspect anything, or she'll get talking about it; it would be too horrible if this were to get round to Lady Maisie or the Culverins – so undignified; and it would ruin all my prestige! I've only to go on playing a part for a few minutes, and – maid or not – she's a most engaging girl!

[He goes on playing the part, with the unexpected result of sending Miss Phillipson into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

      At a Back Entrance at Wyvern. The Fly has just set down Phillipson and Undershell.

      Tredwell (receiving Phillipson). Lady Maisie's maid, I presume? I'm the butler here – Mr. Tredwell. Your ladies arrived some time back. I'll take you to the housekeeper, who'll show you their rooms, and where yours is, and I hope you'll find everything comfortable. (In an undertone, indicating Undershell, who is awaiting recognition in the doorway.) Do you happen to know who it is with you?

      Phillipson (in a whisper). I can't quite make him out – he's so flighty in his talk. But he says he belongs to some Mews or other.

      Tredwell. Oh, then I know who he is. We expect him right enough. He's a partner in a crack firm of Vets. We've sent for him special. I'd better see to him, if you don't mind finding your own way to the housekeeper's room, second door to the left, down that corridor. (Phillipson departs.) Good evening to you, Mr. – ah – Mr. – ?

      Undershell (coming forward). Mr. Undershell. Lady Culverin expects me, I believe.

      Tredwell. Quite correct, Mr. Undershell, sir. She do. Leastwise, I shouldn't say myself she'd require to see you – well, not before to-morrow morning – but you won't mind that, I dare say.

      Undershell (choking). Not mind that! Take me to her at once!

      Tredwell. Couldn't take it on myself, sir, really. There's no particular 'urry. I'll let her ladyship know you're 'ere; and if she wants you, she'll send for you; but, with a party staying in the 'ouse, and others dining with us to-night, it ain't likely as she'll have time for you till to-morrow.

      Undershell.