Part 2

The STALL-KEEPER (_in a dismayed whisper_). Ssh! Not _quite_ so loud! There--just opposite--petunia bow in her bonnet--selling kittens.

The L. O. L. (_planting herself on a chair_). So _that's_ her! Well, she _is_ dressed plain--for a Royalty--but looks _pleasant_ enough. I wouldn't mind taking one o' them kittens off her Royal 'Ighness myself, if they was going at all reasonable. But there, I expect, the cats _'ere_ is meat for my masters, so to speak; and you see, my dear, 'aving the promise of a tortoise-shell Tom from the lady as keeps the Dairy next door, whenever----

[_She finds, with surprise, that her confidences are not encouraged_.

MISS ST. LEGER DE MAYNE (_persuasively to_ MRS. NIBBLER). Do let me show you some of this exquisite work, all embroidered entirely by hand, you see!

MRS. NIBBLER (_edging away_). Lovely--_quite_ lovely; but I think--a--I'll just take a look round before I----

MISS DE M. If there is any _particular_ thing you were looking for, perhaps _I_ could----

MRS. N. (_becoming confidential_). Well, I _did_ think if I could come across a nice _sideboard-cloth_----

MISS DE M. (_to herself_). What on earth's a sideboard-cloth? (_Aloud._) Why, I've the very _thing_! See--all worked in Russian stitch!

MRS. N. (_dubiously_). I thought they were always quite plain. And what's that queer sort of flap-thing for?

MISS DE M. Oh, _that_? That's--a--to cover up the spoons, and forks, and things; quite the latest fashion, _now_, you know.

MRS. N. (_with self-assertion_). I _have_ noticed it at several dinner parties I've been to in society lately, certainly. Still I am not sure that----

MISS DE M. I always have them on my _own_ sideboard now--my husband won't _hear_ of any others.... Then, I _may_ put this one in paper for you? fifteen-and-sixpence--thanks _so_ much! (_To her colleague, as_ Mrs. N. _departs_). Connie, I've got rid of that awful nightgown case at _last_!

MRS. MAYCUP. A--you _don't_ happen to have a small bag to hold a powder-puff, and so on, you know?

MISS DE M. I _had_ some very pretty ones; but I'm afraid they're all--oh, no, there's just _one_ left--crimson velvet and real _passementerie_. (_She produces a bag_). Too trotty for words, isn't it?

MRS. MAYCUP (_tacitly admitting its trottiness_). But then--that sort of purse shape----Could I get a small pair of folding curling-irons into it, should you think, at a pinch?

MISS DE M. You could get _anything_ into it--at a pinch. I've one myself which will hold--well, I can't tell you what it _won't_ hold! Half-a-guinea--so _many_ thanks! (_To herself, as_ MRS. MAYCUP _carries off her_ _bag_.) What _would_ the vicar's wife say if she knew I'd sold her church collection bag for _that_! But it's all in a good cause! (_An_ ELDERLY LADY _comes up_.) May I show you some of these----?

The ELDERLY LADY. Well, I was wondering if you had such a thing as a good warm pair of sleeping socks; because, these bitter nights, I do find I suffer so from cold in my feet.

MISS DE M. (_with effusion_). Ah, then I can _feel_ for you--so do _I_! At least, I _used_ to before I tried--(_To herself._) Where _is_ that pair of thick woollen driving-gloves? Ah, _I_ know. (_Aloud._)--these. I've found them _such_ a comfort!

The E. L. (_suspiciously_). They have rather a queer----And then they are divided at the ends, too.

MISS DE M. Oh, haven't you seen _those_ before? Doctors consider them so much healthier, don't you know.

The E. L. I daresay they are, my dear. But aren't the--(_with delicate embarrassment_)--the separated parts rather long?

MISS DE M. Do you _think_ so? They allow so much more freedom, you see; and then, of course, they'll shrink.

The E. L. That's true, my dear. Well, I'll take a pair, as you recommend them so strongly.

MISS DE M. I'm quite _sure_ you'll never regret it!

(_To herself, as the_ E. L. _retires, charmed_.) I'd give _anything_ to see the poor old thing trying to put them on!

MISS MIMOSA TENDRILL (_to herself_). I do so _hate_ hawking this horrid old thing about! (_Forlornly, to_ MRS. ALLBUTT-INNETT.) I--I beg your pardon; but _will_ you give me ten-and-sixpence for this lovely work-basket?

MRS. ALLBUTT-INNETT. My good girl, let me tell you I've been pestered to buy that identical basket at every bazaar I've set foot in for the last twelve-month, and how you can have the face to ask ten-and-six for it--you must think I've more money than wit!

MISS TENDR. (_abashed_). Well--_eighteenpence_ then? (_To herself, as_ Mrs. A. I. _closes promptly_.) There, I've sold _something_, anyhow!

The HON. DIANA D'AUTENBAS (_to herself_). It's rather fun selling at a Bazaar; one can let oneself _go_ so much more! (_To the first man she meets._) I'm sure you'll buy one of my buttonholes--now _won't_ you? If I fasten it in for you myself?

MR. CADNEY ROWSER. A button'ole, eh? Think I'm not classy enough as I am?

MISS D'AUT. I don't think _anyone_ could accuse you of not being "_classy_;" still a flower would just give the finishing-touch.

MR. C. R. (_modestly_). Rats!--if you'll pass the reedom. But you've such a way with you that--there--'ow much.

MISS D'AUT. Only five shillings. Nothing to _you_!

MR. C. R. Five bob? You're a artful girl, _you_ are! "_Fang de Seakale_," and no error! But I'm _on_ it; it's worth the money to 'ave a flower fastened in by such fair 'ands. I won't 'owl--not even if you _do_ run a pin into me.... What? You ain't done a'ready! No _'urry_, yer know.... 'Ere, won't you come along to the refreshment-stall, and 'ave a little something at my expense. Do!

MISS D'AUT. I think you must imagine you are talking to a barmaid!

MR. C. R. (_with gallantry_). I on'y wish barmaids was 'alf as pleasant and sociable as _you_, Miss. But they're a precious stuck-up lot, _I_ can assure you!

MISS D'AUT. (_to herself as she escapes_). I suppose one ought to put up with this sort of thing--for a charity!

MRS. BABBICOMBE (_at the Toy Stall, to the Belle of the Bazaar, aged three-and-a-half_). You _perfect_ duck! You're simply too _sweet_! I _must_ find you something. (_She tempers generosity with discretion by presenting her with a small pair of knitted doll's socks_.) There, darling!

The BELLE'S MOTHER. What do you say to the kind lady _now_, Marjory?

MARJORY (_a practical young person, to the donor_). Now div me a dolly to put ve socks on.

[MRS. B. _finds herself obliged to repair this omission_.

A YOUNG LADY RAFFLER (_to a_ YOUNG MAN). Do take a ticket for this charmin' _sachet_. Only half-a-crown!

The YOUNG MAN. Delighted! If you'll put in for this _splendid_ cigar cabinet. Two shillin's!

[_The_ YOUNG LADY _realises that she has encountered an Augur, and passes on_.

MISS DE. M. (_to_ MR. ISTHMIAN GATWICK). Can't I tempt you with this tea-cosy? It's so absurdly cheap!

MR. ISTHMIAN GATWICK (_with dignity_). A-thanks; I think not. Never _take_ tea, don't you know.

MISS DE M. (_with her characteristic adaptability_). Really? No more do _I_. But you _could_ use it as a _smoking-cap_, you know. _I_ always----

[_Recollects herself, and breaks off in confusion_.

MISS OPHELIA PALMER (_in the "Wizard's Cave"--to_ MR. CADNEY ROWSER). Yes, your hand indicates an intensely refined and spiritual nature; you are perhaps a _little_ too indifferent to your personal comfort where that of others is concerned; sensitive--too much so for your own happiness, perhaps--you feel things keenly when you _do_ feel them. You have lofty ambitions and the artistic temperament--seven-and-sixpence, please.

MR. C. R. (_impressed_). Well, Miss, if you can read all that for seven-and-six on the palm of my 'and, I wonder what you _wouldn't_ see for 'alf a quid on the sole o' my boot!

[MISS P.'S _belief in Chiromancy sustains a severe shock_.

BOBBIE PATTERSON (_outside tent, as Showman_). This way to the Marvellous Jumping Bean from Mexico! Threepence!

VOICE FROM TENT. Bobbie! Stop! The Bean's _lost_! Lady Honor's horrid Thought-reading Poodle has just stepped in and swallowed it.

BOBBIE. Ladies and Gentlemen, owing to sudden domestic calamity, the Bean has been unavoidably compelled to retire, and will be unable to appear till further notice.

MISS SMYLIE (_to_ MR. OTIS BARLEYWATER, _who--in his own set--is considered "almost equal to Corney Grain"_). I thought you were giving your entertainment in the library? Why _aren't_ you?

MR. OTIS BARLEYWATER (_in a tone of injury_). Why? Because I can't give my imitations of Arthur Roberts and Yvette Guilbert with anything _like_ the requisite "go," unless I get a better audience than three programme-sellers, all under ten, and the cloak-room maid--_that's_ why!

MRS. ALLBUTT-INNETT (_as she leaves, for the benefit of bystanders_). I must say, the house is _most_ disappointing--not at _all_ what I should expect a _Marquis_ to live in. Why, my _own_ reception-rooms are very nearly as large, and decorated in a much more modern style!

BOBBIE PATTERSON (_to a_ "DOOSID GOOD-NATURED FELLOW, _who doesn't care what he does," and whom he has just discovered inside a case got up to represent an automatic sweetmeat machine_). Why, my dear old _chap_! No idea it was _you_ inside that thing! Enjoying yourself in there, eh?

The DOOSID GOOD-NATURED FELLOW (_fluffily, from the interior_). Enjoying myself! With the beastly pennies droppin' down into my boots, and the kids howlin' because all the confounded chocolates have worked up between my shoulder-blades, and I can't shake 'em out of the slit in my arm? I'd like to see _you_ tryin' it!

The L. O. L. (_to a stranger, who is approaching the_ _Princess's stall_). 'Ere, Mister, where are your manners? 'Ats off in the presence o' Royalty!

[_She pokes him in the back with her umbrella; the stranger turns, smiles slightly, and passes on._

A WELL-INFORMED BYSTANDER. You are evidently unaware, Madam, that the gentleman you have just addressed is His Serene Highness the Prince of Potsdam!

The L. O. L. (_aghast_). Her '_usban_'! And me a jobbin' of 'im with my umbrella! 'Ere, let me get out!

[_She staggers out, in deadly terror of being sent to the Tower on the spot._

THE CLASSICAL SCHOLAR IN REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES.

You are, let us say, a young professional man in chambers or offices, incompetently guarded by an idiot boy whom you dare not trust with the responsibility of denying you to strangers. You hear a knock at your outer door, followed by conversation in the clerk's room, after which your salaried idiot announces "A Gentleman to see you." Enter a dingy and dismal little man in threadbare black, who advances with an air of mysterious importance. "I think," he begins, "I 'ave the pleasure of speaking to Mr.----" (_whatever your name is_.) "I take the liberty of calling, Mr.----, to consult you on a matter of the utmost importance, and I shall feel personally obliged if you will take precautions for our conversation not being over'eard."

He looks grubby for a client--but appearances are deceptive, and you offer him a seat, assuring him that he may speak with perfect security--whereupon he proceeds in a lowered voice.

"The story I am about to reveal," he says, smoothing a slimy tall hat, "is of a nature so revolting, so 'orrible in its details, that I can 'ardly bring myself to speak it to any 'uming ear!" (_Here you will probably prepare to take notes._) "You see before you one who is of 'igh birth but low circumstances!" (_At this you give him up as a possible client, but a mixture of diffidence and curiosity compels you to listen._) "Yes, Sir, I was '_ fruges consumeary nati_.' I 'ave received a neducation more befitting a dook than my present condition. Nursed in the lap of haffluence, I was trained to fill the lofty position which was to have been my lot. But, '_necessitas_,' Sir, as you are aware, '_necessitas non abat lejim_,' and such I found it. While still receiving a classical education at Cambridge College--(praps you are yourself an alumbus of _Halma Mater_? No? I apologise, Sir, I'm sure)--but while preparing to take my honorary degree, my father suddenly enounced the horful news that he was a bankrup'. Stript of all we possessed, we were turned out of our sumchuous 'ome upon the cold world, my father's grey 'airs were brought down sorrowing to sangwidge boards, though he is still sangwin of paying off his creditors in time out of what he can put by from his scanty hearnings. My poor dear Mother--a lady born and bred--sank by slow degrees to a cawfy-stall, which is now morgidged to the 'ilt, and my eldest Sister, a lovely and accomplished gairl, was 'artlessly thrown over by a nobleman, to 'oom she was engaged to be married, before our reverses overtook us. His name the delikit hinstinks of a gentleman will forbid you to inquire, as likewise me to mention--enough to 'int that he occupies a prominent position amongst the hupper circles of Society, and is frequently to be met with in the papers. His faithlessness preyed on my Sister's mind to that degree, that she is now in the Asylum, a nopeless maniac! My honely Brother was withdrawn from 'Arrow, and now 'as the 'yumiliation of selling penny toys on the kerbstone to his former playfellers. '_Tantee nannymice salestibus hiræ_,' indeed, Sir!

"But you ask what befell myself." (_You have not--for the simple reason that, even if you desired information, he has given you no chance, as yet, of putting in a word._) "Ah, Sir, there you 'ave me on a tender point. '_Hakew tetigisti_,' if I may venture once more upon a scholarly illusion. But I 'ave resolved to conceal nothing--and you shall 'ear. For a time I obtained employment as Seckertary and Imanuensis to a young baranit, 'oo had been the bosom friend of my College days. He would, I know, have used his influence with Goverment to obtain me a lucritive post; but, alas, ere he could do so, unaired sheets, coupled with deliket 'elth, took him off premature, and I was once more thrown on my own resources.

"In conclusion, Sir, you 'ave doubtless done me the hinjustice to expect, from all I 'ave said, that my hobjick in obtaining this interview was to ask you for pecuniary assistance?" (_Here you reflect with remorse that a suspicion to this effect has certainly crossed your mind._) "Nothing of the sort or kind, I do assure you. A little 'uming sympathy, the relief of pouring out my sorrers upon a feeling 'art, a few kind encouraging words, is all I arsk, and that, Sir, the first sight of your kind friendly face told me I should not lack. Pore as I am, I still 'ave my pride, the pride of a English gentleman, and if you was to orfer me a sovereign as you sit there, I should fling it in the fire--ah, I _should_--'urt and indignant at the hinsult!" (_Here you will probably assure him that you have no intention of outraging his feelings in any such manner._) "No, and _why_, Sir? Because you 'ave a gentlemanly 'art, and if you were to make sech a orfer, you would do it in a kindly Christian spirit which would rob it of all offence. There's not many as I would bring myself to accept a paltry sovereign from, but I dunno--I might from one like yourself--I _might_. _Ord hignara mali, miseris succur-reary disco_, as the old philosopher says. You 'ave that kind of _way_ with you." (_You mildly intimate that he is mistaken here, and take the opportunity of touching the bell_.) "No, Sir, don't be untrue to your better himpulses. '_Ave_ a feelin 'art, Sir! Don't send me away, after allowing me to waste my time 'ere--which is of value _to me_, let me tell yer, whatever _yours_ is!--like this!.... Well, well, there's 'ard people in this world? I'm _going_, Sir ... I 'ave sufficient dignity to take a'int.... You 'aven't got even a trifle to spare an old University Scholar in redooced circumstances then?... Ah, it's easy to see you ain't been at a University yourself--you ain't got the _hair_ of it! Farewell, Sir, and may your lot in life be 'appier than----All right, don't _hexcite_ yourself. I've bin mistook in yer, that's all. I thought you was as soft-edded a young mug as you look. Open that door, will yer; I want to get out of this 'ole!"

Here he leaves you with every indication of disgust and disappointment, and you will probably hear him indulging in unclassical vituperation on the landing.

RUS IN URBE.

(A SKETCH IN REGENT'S PARK.)

_A railed-in corner of the Park. TIME--About 7 p.m. Inside the enclosure three shepherds are engaged in shearing the park sheep. The first shepherd has just thrown his patient on its back, gripped its shoulders between his knees, and tucked its head, as a tiresome and obstructive excrescence, neatly away under one of his arms, while he reaches for the shears. The second is straddled across his animal, which is lying with its hind legs hobbled on a low stage under an elm, in a state of stoical resignation, as its fleece is deftly nipped from under its chin. The third operator has almost finished his sheep, which, as its dark grey fleece slips away from its pink-and-white neck and shoulders, suggests a rather décolletée dowager in the act of removing her theatre-cloak in the stalls. Sheep, already shorn, lie and pant in shame and shivering bewilderment, one or two nibble the blades of grass, as if to assure themselves that that resource is still open to them. Sheep whose turn is still to come are penned up at the back, and look on, scandalised, but with an air which seems to express that their own superior respectability is a sufficient protection against similar outrage. The shearers appear to take a humorous view of their task, and are watched by a crowd which has collected round the railings, with an agreeable assurance that they are not expected to contribute towards the entertainment._

FIRST WORK-GIRL (_edging up_). Whatever's goin' on inside 'ere? (_After looking--disappointed._) Why they ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters, or somethink o' that.

SECOND WORK-GIRL (_with irony_). They _look_ like Reciters, don't they! It do seem a shime cuttin' them poor things as close as convicks, that it do!

FIRST W.-G. They don't mind it partickler; you'd 'ear 'em 'oller fast enough if they did.

SECOND W.-G. I expeck they feel so redic'lus, they 'aven't the 'art to 'oller.

LUCILLA (_to GEORGE_). Do look at that one going up and sniffing at the bundle of fleeces, trying to find out which is his. _Isn't_ it pathetic?

GEORGE. H'm--puts one in mind of a shy man in a cloak-room after a party, saying feebly, "I rather think that's _my_ coat, and there's a crush hat of mine _somewhere_ about," eh?

LUCILLA (_who is always wishing that GEORGE would talk more sensibly_). Considering that sheep don't _wear_ crush hats, I hardly see how----

GEORGE. My dear, I bow to your superior knowledge of natural history. Now you mention it, I believe it _is_ unusual. But I merely meant to suggest a general resemblance.

LUCILLA (_reprovingly_). I know. And you've got into such a silly habit of seeing resemblances in things that are perfectly different. I'm sure I'm _always_ telling you of it.

GEORGE. You are, my dear. But I'm not nearly so bad as I _was_. Think of all the things I used to compare _you_ to before we were married!

SARAH JANE (_to her TROOPER_). I could stand an' look at 'em hours, I could. I was born and bred in the country, and it do seem to bring back my old 'ome that plain.

Her TROOPER. I'm country bred too, though yer mightn't think it. But there ain't much in sheep shearin' to _my_ mind. If it was _pig killin'_, now!

SARAH JANE. Ah, that's along o' your bein' in the milingtary, I expect.

Her TROOPER. No, it ain't that. It's the reckerlections it 'ud call up. I 'ad a 'ole uncle a pork-butcher, d'ye see, and (_with sentiment_) many and many a 'appy hour I've spent as a boy----[_He indulges in tender reminiscences._

A YOUNG CLERK (_who belongs to a Literary Society, to his FIANCÉE_). It has a wonderfully rural look--quite like a scene in 'Ardy, isn't it?

His FIANCÉE (_who has "no time for reading rubbish"_). I daresay; though I've never been there myself.

The CLERK. Never been? Oh, I see. _You_ thought I said _Arden_--the Forest of Arden, in Shakspeare, didn't you?

His FIANCÉE. Isn't that where Mr. Gladstone lives, and goes cutting down the trees in?

The CLERK. No; At least it's spelt different. But it was 'Ardy _I_ meant. _Far from the Madding Crowd_, you know.

His FIANCÉE (_with a vague view to the next Bank Holiday_). What do you _call_ "far"--farther than _Margate_?

[_Her companion has a sense of discouragement._

An ARTISAN (_to a neighbour in broadcloth and a white choker_). It's wonderful 'ow they can go so close without 'urtin' of 'em, ain't it?

His NEIGHBOUR (_with unction_). Ah, my friend, it on'y shows 'ow true it is that 'eving tempers the shears for the shorn lambs!

A GOVERNESS (_instructively, to her charge_). Don't you think you ought to be very grateful to that poor sheep, Ethel, for giving up her nice warm fleece on purpose to make a frock for _you_?

ETHEL (_doubtfully_). Y--yes, Miss Mavor. But (_with a fear that some reciprocity may be expected of her_) she's too big for any of my _best_ frocks, _isn't_ she?

FIRST URCHIN (_perched on the railings_). Ain't that 'un a-kicking? 'E don't like 'aving _'is_ 'air cut, 'e don't, no more shouldn't I if it was me.... 'E's bin an' upset 'is bloke on the grorss, now! Look at the bloke layin' there larfin'.... 'E's ketched 'im agin now. See 'im landin' 'im a smack on the 'ed; that'll learn 'im to stay quiet, eh? 'E's strong, ain't 'e?

SECOND URCHIN. Rams is the wust, though, 'cause they got 'orns, rams 'ave.

FIRST URCH. What, same as goats?

SECOND URCH. (_emphatically_). Yuss! Big crooked 'uns. And runs at yer, they do.

FIRST URCH. I wish they was rams in 'ere. See all them sheep waitin' to be done. I wonder what they're finkin' of.

SECOND URCH. Ga-arn! They _don't_ fink, sheep don't.

FIRST URCH. Not o' anyfink?

SECOND URCH. Na-ow! They ain't got nuffink to fink _about_, sheep ain't.

FIRST URCH. I lay they _do_ fink, 'orf and on.

SECOND URCH. Well, I lay _you_ never see 'em doin' of it!

[_And so on. The first Shepherd disrobes his sheep, and dismisses it with a disrespectful spank. After which he proceeds to refresh himself from a brown jar, and hands it to his comrades. The spectators look on with deeper interest, and discuss the chances of the liquid being beer, cider, or cold tea, as the scene closes._

CATCHING THE EARLY BOAT.

_In Bed; At the Highland Hotel, Oban._

What an extraordinary thing is the mechanism of the human mind! Went to sleep last night impressed with vital importance of waking at six, to catch early steamer to Gairloch. And here I am--broad awake--at exactly 5.55! Is it automatic action, or what? Like setting clockwork for explosive machine. When the time comes, I blow up--I mean, _get_ up. Think out this simile--rather a good one.... Need not have been so particular in telling Boots to call me, after all. Shall I get up _before_ he comes? He'll be rather surprised when he knocks at the door, and hears me singing inside like a lark. But, on reflection, isn't it rather _petty_ to wish to astonish an hotel Boots? And why on earth should I get up myself, when I've tipped another fellow to get me up? But suppose he forgets to call me. I've no right, as yet, to _assume_ that he will. To get up now would argue want of confidence in him--might hurt his feelings. I will give him another five minutes, poor fellow....