--Jarge-- (_at last_). Lor' bless 'ee, w.i.l.l.yum, if it bain't Squire a-kissin' our Rachel.

--w.i.l.l.yum.-- Zo it du be. Here du be goings-on! What will t' pa.s.son say?

--Jarge-- (_struck with an idea_). Zay, bor, don't 'ee zee a zort o'

loikeness atween t' maid and t' Squire?

--w.i.l.l.yum.-- Jarge, if you bain't right, lad. Happen she do have t' same nose!

(_Hearing something_, Fitzhugh _and_ Rachel _turn round._)

--Fitzhugh.-- Ah, my men! I'm your new Squire. Do you know who this is?

--w.i.l.l.yum.-- Why, her du be our Rachel.

--Fitzhugh.-- On the contrary, allow me to introduce you to Miss Fitzhugh, daughter of the late Squire!

--Jarge.-- Well, this du be a day! To think of our Rachel now!

--Fitzhugh.-- _My_ Rachel now!

--Rachel-- (_who, it is to be hoped, has been amusing herself somehow since her last speech_). Your Rachel always. [CURTAIN.

XLV. "THE LITERARY LIFE"

_The Scene is the Editor's room in the Office of "The Lark." Two walls of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by magnificently bound books; the third wall at the back is hidden by boxes of immensely expensive cigars. The windows, of course, are in the fourth wall, which, however, need not be described, as it is never quite practicable on the stage. The floor of this apartment is chastely covered with rugs shot by the Editor in his travels, or in the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some cases, presented by admiring readers from abroad. The furniture is both elegant and commodious._

William Smith, Editor, _comes in. He is superbly dressed in a fur coat and an expensive cigar. There is a blue pencil behind his ear, and a sheaf of what we call in the profession "typewritten ma.n.u.scripts" under his arm. He sits down at his desk and pulls the telephone towards him._

--Smith-- (_at the telephone_). Hallo, is that you, Jones?... Yes, it's me. Just come up a moment. (_Puts down telephone and begins to open his letters._)

_Enter_ Jones, _his favourite sub-editor. He is dressed quite commonly, and is covered with ink. He salutes respectfully as he comes into the room._

--Jones.-- Good afternoon, chief.

--Smith.-- Good afternoon. Have a cigar?

--Jones.-- Thank you, chief.

--Smith.-- Have you anything to tell me?

--Jones.-- The circulation is still going up, chief. It was three million and eight last week.

--Smith-- (_testily_). How often have I told you not to call me "chief,"

except when there are ladies present? Why can't you do what you're told?

--Jones.-- Sorry, sir, but the fact is there are ladies present.

--Smith-- (_fingering his moustache_). Show them up. Who are they?

--Jones.-- There is only one. She says she's the lady who has been writing our anonymous "Secrets of the Boudoir" series which has made such a sensation.

--Smith-- (in amazement). I thought you told me _you_ wrote those.

--Jones-- (simply). I did.

--Smith.-- Then why----

--Jones.-- I mean I did tell you. The truth is they came in anonymously, and I thought they were more likely to be accepted if I said I had written them. (_With great emotion._) Forgive me, chief, but it was for the paper's sake. (_In matter-of-fact tones._) There were one or two peculiarities of style I had to alter. She had a way of----

--Smith-- (_sternly_). How many cheques for them have you accepted for the paper's sake?

--Jones.-- Eight. For a thousand pounds each.

--Smith-- (_with tears in his eyes_). If your mother were to hear of this----

--Jones-- (_sadly_). Ah, chief, I never had a mother.

--Smith-- (_slightly put out, but recovering himself quickly_). What would your father say if----

--Jones.-- Alas, I have no relations. I was a foundling.

--Smith-- (_nettled_). In that case I shall certainly tell the master of your workhouse. To think that there should be a thief in this office.

--Jones-- (_with great pathos_). Chief, chief, I am not so vile as that. I have carefully kept all the cheques in an old stocking, and----

--Smith-- (_in surprise_). Do you wear stockings?

--Jones-- When I bicycle. And as soon as the contributor comes forward----

--Smith-- (_stretching out his hand and grasping that of Jones_). My dear boy, forgive me. You have been hasty, perhaps, but zealous. In any case, your honesty is above suspicion. Leave me now. I have much to think of. (_Rests his head on his hands. Then, dreamily._) You have never seen your father; for thirty years _I_ have not seen my wife.... Ah, Arabella!

--Jones.-- Yes, sir. (_Rings bell._)

--Smith.-- She _would_ split her infinitives.... We quarrelled.... She left me.... I have never seen her again.

--Jones.-- (_excitedly_). Did you say she split her infinitives?

--Smith.-- Yes. That was what led to our separation. Why?

--Jones.-- Nothing, only--it's very odd. I wonder----

_Enter_ Boy.

--Boy.-- Did you ring, Sir?

--Smith.-- No. But you can show the lady up. (_Exit_ Boy.) You'd better clear out, Jones. I'll explain to her about the money.