Mr. Stip. If you would kindly take this – ah – toy in your hand, Madam, it might rouse him a little.
The E. L. (exhibiting a gutta-percha rat). Here, Fluffy, Fluffy, here's a pitty sing! What is it, eh!
Fluff (after opening one eye). The old fool fancies she's got a rat! Well, she may keep it!
Mr. Stip. We must try to obtain more – ah – animation than that.
The E. L. (shaking it vigorously). Fluffy, see what Missis has got!
Fluff (by a yawn of much eloquence). At her age, too! Wonderful how she can do it!
Mr. Stip. Perhaps you may produce a better effect with this. [He hands her a stuffed stoat.
Fluff (to himself). What's she got hold of now? Hul-lo! (He rises, and inspects the stoat with interest.) I'd no idea the old girl was so "varmint"!
Mr. Stip. Capital! Now, if he'll stay like that another – (Fluff jumps down, and wags his tail with conscious merit.) Oh, dear me. I never saw such a dog!
The E. L. He's tired out, poor doggie, and no wonder. But he'll be all the quieter for it, won't he? (After restoring Fluff to the chair.) Now, couldn't you take him panting, like that?
Mr. Stip. I must wait till he's got a little less tongue out, Madam.
The E. L. Must you? Why? I should have thought it was a capital opportunity.
Mr. Stip. For a physician, Madam, not a photographer. If I were to take him now the result would be an – ah – enormous tongue, with a dog in the remote distance.
The E. L. And he's putting out more and more of it! Perhaps he's thirsty again. Here, Fluffy, water – water! [She produces the developing dish.
Fluff (in barks of unmistakable significance). Look here, I've had about enough of this tomfoolery. Let's go. Come on!
Mr. Stip. (seconding the motion with relief). I'm afraid we're not likely to do better with him to-day. Perhaps if you could look in some othah afternoon?
The E. L. Why, we've only been an hour and twenty minutes as yet! But what would be the best time to bring him?
Mr. Stip. I should say the light and the temperatuah would probably be more favourable by the week aftah next – (to himself) when I shall be taking my holiday!
The E. L. Very well, I'll come then. Oh, Fluffy, Fluffy, what a silly little dog you are to give all this trouble!
Fluff (to himself, as he makes a triumphant exit). Not half so silly as some people think! I must tell the cat about this; she'll go into fits! I will say she has a considerable sense of humour – for a cat.
IN THE CAUSE OF CHARITY
Mona House, the Town Mansion of the Marquis of Manx, which has been lent for a Sale of Work in aid of the "Fund for Super-annuated Skirt-dancers," under the patronage of Royalty and other distinguished personages.
In the Entrance Hall.
Mrs. Wylie Dedhead (attempting to insinuate herself between the barriers). Excuse me; I only wanted to pop in for a moment, just to see if a lady friend of mine is in there, that's all!
The Lady Money-taker (blandly). If you will let me know your friend's name – ?
Mrs. W. D. (splendide mendax). She's assisting the dear Duchess. Now, perhaps, you will allow me to pass!
The L. M. Afraid I can't, really. But if you mean Lady Honor Hyndlegges —she is the only lady at the Duchess's stall – I could send in for her. Or of course, if you like to pay half-a-crown —
Mrs. W. D. (hastily). Thank you, I – I won't disturb her ladyship. I had no idea there was any charge for admission, and – (bristling) – allow me to say I consider such regulations most absurd.
The L. M. (sweetly, with a half glance at the bowl of coins on the table). Quite too ridiculous, ain't they? Good afternoon!
Mrs. W. D. (audibly, as she flounces out). If they suppose I'm going to pay half-a-crown for the privilege of being fleeced– !
Footman (on steps, sotto voce, to confrère). "Fleeced"! that's a good 'un, eh? She ain't brought much wool in with her!
His Confrère. On'y what's stuffed inside of her ear. [They resume their former impassive dignity.
In the Venetian Gallery – where the Bazaar is being held.
A Loyal Old Lady (at the top of her voice – to Stall-keeper). Which of 'em's the Princess, my dear, eh? It's her I paid my money to see.
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 —
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