First produced at the Royal Lyceum Theatre, on Wednesday, June, 7th, 1848.
The Scene is laid in “Bee-hive Lodge,” Mr. Honeyball's Residence. The time occupied is one morning. COSTUMES OF THE DAY. Time in Representation, Fifty-one Minutes.
I wonder whether master and his friend did come last night, after all! They
were to leave London by the ten o'clock train, and to arrive here at four in the
morning. And the door was to be left on the latch, and the double-bedded room
was to be got ready, so Missis might not be disturbed by her husband's return.
There never was such a man—so considerate, and so kind to Missis and the poor
servants!
Never mind the room, just now, Eliza, but go and see about breakfast for the gentlemen—they will be getting up soon, I suppose.
If Mr. Swoppington had any gallantry, Kate, he would have been up long ago. Considering that he has never seen me, I think his persevering sleep rather a bad compliment.
You mean, Miss Margaret, that you are in a violent hurry to see him.
Well, you'll allow that the wish is natural, won't you?
Oh! certainly; though, as you have agreed to marry him, his personal appearance is of no particular consequence, you know.
I know no such thing, then; and though I have agreed to marry him, and if he had been my brother's friend for twenty thousand years, instead of twenty, I won't have him, if I don't like him.
Oh! nonsense. As he has proposed for you on the
I wish Paul would mind his own business, and not go running about finding
husbands for me. This is the ninth he has offered me, within two months.
However,
Keeping a young lady waiting for her intended.
I wonder what he is like?
Paul says he is very good looking.
Yes, and illustrates his notion of beauty, by adding that they resemble one another. Now, if Mr. Swoppington is such a guy as Paul—
Come, come, I won't hear Paul abused! He may not be strictly handsome—
No, he is not.
But he is a very good sort of husband!
Yes, but he snores; I can hear him at this distance.
Perhaps, now, it is Mr. Swoppington!
No, don't say that, the thing's impossible! But I won't bear this any longer. Will you knock at the door, and make them get up?
Not I; let them sleep, poor things!
Shall they? Not if I know it!
My dear Kate!
Oh, very well, Paul! but where's—where's—
Exactly—out with it, Meg!
Where's my—where's Mr. Swoppington?
Mr. Swoppington is at present in bed, where I beg you will allow him to remain, inasmuch as he has had only two hours sleep, poor fellow!
Ah! he has been restless. He has been thinking of me, of course, and that kept him awake.
To use a strong expression—not exactly. For though love, and curiosity, and
such like follies, may disturb one's repose, they don't make one turn other
people out of bed,
What do you mean?
I mean my valued friend, Swoppington—now, I am happy to say, asleep—has one fault—exactly one!
Why, you wrote us word that he was faultless!
Because he had not then rendered me sleepless. But as last night he would not allow me to close my eyes, they were naturally open to his failing.
And pray what is it?
Simply this:—He is never satisfied with anything of his own, but always wants everything that belongs to other people.
Pleasant!
Remarkably! The failing, if indulged in too much, might bring it's possessor under the unfavourable notice of a dozen of his countrymen. But Swoppington does not go to such extremes. He only asks for everything he sees, and despises it from the moment it is his. I hope your married life will be happy, notwithstanding—very happy!
The prospect is not inviting.
Yes; for though he spoiled my night's rest—although he insisted upon it, that I had the best of the two beds, and when we had changed, he grew tired of his, and made me change back again. Although, when the bed question was settled, he opened a debate upon the pillows; contending, first, that his was too hard, and afterwards, that its substitute was too soft; he would have the cloak I threw over my feet, instead of his own railway wrapper, and then found that the cloak was not warm enough, and that he wanted his wrapper again. In spite of all this, I am bound to recommend him as a husband, seeing that he is well off, good-natured, intelligent, and, in short, almost as desirable a partner as—myself.
A sad anti-climax, Paul, dear!
Madam, or rather Mrs. Honeyball, you don't appreciate the wonderful good fortune which gave you such a man as myself. Margaret, you will, I hope, be more grateful for fewer advantages.
But, Paul, it seems to me that this young gentleman's changeable nature may induce him to think that a girl who has accepted him, is no longer worth his attention, and poor Margaret Honeyball may share the affecting fate of the beds and pillows.
I think it extremely probable.
You do?
Indeed, I may say, I think it certain.
Then why did you bring him here?
To marry you.
And now you think he will refuse.
I think nothing of the kind.
I wish you would explain yourself.
See, now, what it is to have a man of intellect at the head of a household.
But give us a proof that our household is so favoured.
Envenomed sarcasm! never mind, young woman, listen —we must plot.
Plot?
I said “plot,” and if it will be any satisfaction to you, I will say it again.
As for me, I can only say, that if I cannot have a husband without plotting to gain one, I'll die an old maid.
Don't use such horrible expressions.
Indeed, I don't know what you are always fidgetting about my marriage for.
Peg Honeyball, hearken! You are twenty years of age —Mr. Swoppington is an excellent young man, with a trifling, but ludicrous failing. If you like to give him up, say so, and he shall go back to town by the mid-day train.
No, no! that would be inhospitable—and—well, what is it you propose?
Ha! come to your senses, eh? Exactly. Now I'll tell you Swoppington is my very old friend—good. I went to town, as you know, on our election petition, and one evening, not exactly knowing what to do with myself—
And not caring enough for your wife, to sit down and write her a letter—
My love—the post had gone out, so I looked in at a Casino.
What's that?
Oh, one of those places which the “early closing” agitation has induced
Philanthropists to open for the moral improvement of young Holborn. There I
met Swoppington, improving his morals
Which he would not have done, but for having a rival.
Perhaps—and when he loves you on his own account he will be glad that I invented the story. See what it is to have a man of intellect for a brother!
And he insisted on accompanying you here?
He would hear of no delay—he would have taken an express engine, instead of awaiting the regular train, if I had allowed it—and here he is.
Asleep. But, at all events, he is an original.
I hear him getting up—
At last—now you can present him.
Not a bit—you forget my plot.
Explain it, then, and make haste.
Now you two go into the garden, and I will come to you. I don't want him to see you.
Not see us?
No, not yet! Now go—and trust to me, a man of intellect. Do you hear? Away!
Up at last, Swoppington! I think you have had a pretty good spell, eh?
Come—I like that—I do, upon my honour. You who
Well, you chose your bed.
I know I did, and I chose wrong, as I always do in everything. Come what will, I am always worse off than anybody else. But where are the ladies?
Gone out, hours ago—gone for a walk in the woods. Why, you don't suppose we
keep London hours here and feel that if we're obliged to breakfast at noon, we
have been called up in the middle of the night!
I say! where did you get that watch?—what a nice watch—a capital watch! where did you get it?
Get it? I got it at a watchmaker's—Dent's, I believe.
I don't believe you did. It's a beauty—a love—the captain of watches—does it go well?
Loses rather.
Now, that's just what I like, too; I like a watch that loses —one don't seem to get old so fast. Swop with me for mine, will you?
No! I rather like this—I prefer keeping it.
Well, lend it me, then, for a bit; come, I'll lend you anything of mine you like. I'll lend you my umbrella.
I've got half-a-dozen umbrellas.
How you must steal! but I'll have a watch like that, in spite of you, see if
I don't. I'll buy one, instead of this beast of a thing.
No, a devilish fine repeater!
I hate a repeater—who wants to carry a churchful of chimes in his waistcoat?
I wish you'd swop.
What about him?
What a prime shooting-jacket that is! A capital fit, and a good colour. Is it
London-made? Here, let me try it on for a minute—
Will you let my coat alone, you'll have the buttons off!
No, will you though?
Yes! And now I'll give you something else.
But the ladies—won't they sit down with us?
No, not they—they breakfasted early.
And very right, too—I wish I had breakfasted early. What foolery it is to breakfast at such an hour as this!
Well, you know, this is liberty hall—you are not obliged to eat anything—you can wait till dinner, if you like—I sha'n't.
No, no! if you eat, I'll eat, I'll do as you do.
That's right, Eliza, give us breakfast!
You'll take coffee, sir?
Yes, and tea to follow.
What a nice little girl—deuced pretty—and handy, and quiet, just what a
servant ought to be! Such a girl's a treasure in a house. I'll engage her
myself—I shall want servants.
Sir!
Not a bit of it—not a bit of it! I mean to keep Eliza— she knows our ways, and wo don't want to part with her.
Yes, yes, you let her come to me, and I'll tell you what I'll do for you; I know such a nice black woman, called Celia—she's just come from Trinidad, to some friends of mine at Bayswater— I'll engage her for you.
A black woman?—get out!
He say's he'll double my wages—he knows a good servant, when he sees one, that's certain.
How nicely she's laid that table now—everything in its place—very well done, Eliza!
Now I'll trouble you not to meddle with my servants. Eliza, go down stairs directly!
I will have that girl, I'm determined, or, at least, I'll have one just like her. I say, has she any sisters?
Will you have any breakfast?
I say, let me sit there!
Sit where you like; now, what shall I help you to?—here's some cold fowl—what part will you have?
Anything—I don't care what.
I hate a man who don't care what he eats
Well, then, there, where your fork is.
This bit?
Yes, yes—that!
There's the liver wing, then.
You will? Take it—I can't eat anything!
Why not?
My dear fellow, the gizzard wing is just the part I like; but take it—take it!
Why, I only took it out of courtesy. There, let me hand it to you!
No, no! If you don't want it—keep it. You like the liver wing, I suppose?
Yes, I'm very fond of the liver wing!
So am I—I'm wildly fond of it!
Then you've got it.
This fowl's capital!
I'm glad you like it! I say, Swoppington, our poor neighbour, Jeremy Census,
he'll almost go mad when he finds that you are going to marry her.
My sister!
Ah! Then he was very fond of her, eh?
Fond? Mad about her!
My dear Paul, how enchanted I am that you give my proposal the preference.
Fancy, now, that an angel, like Miss Honeyball, should live to be called Mrs.
Jeremy Census—bah!
I think you are a great fool, my dear friend! What nonsense it is, that you always prefer everything that is not your own, to everything that is. For my part, it's exactly the other way with me. I prefer everything I have; for instance, my wife, now— I prefer Kate Honeyball to any other wife in the world.
How very odd that seems to me, now! that liking one's own wife better than another man's. I can't understand it, upon my word!
I hope, however, that when you are married to my sister, you will.
Of course I shall. I say—tell me, is she pretty?
My sister?
No, your wife! I don't know her, you know. I wish you would present me—I'm dying to see her.
And my sister?
Of course! And your wife—she makes you happy, I suppose?
I have nothing to complain of.
Lucky fellow! I say, go and find her—I must know her.
And my sister?
Of course! Now do go—get out!
—What a fortunate fellow that is! To marry such a woman as that—a woman with
all the virtues and accomplishments in the world—a woman of mind—a domestic
woman—a woman who loves him—a woman who cares for nobody else. I'm certain
that's her character. And what's he, a humguffin like that, that he should gain
such a wife? What can she see in him? In the first place, he's devilish ugly.
Ugly, though? I don't know. I wish I had his features—I do, upon my word. His
hair is
Sir, sir, it will do!
Yes, it will do; but—Ah! Eliza, is that you?
Double my present wages—that will do, sir! They give me twelve pounds a year, but the place is dreadful slavery—so I'll come to you.
Dreadful slavery, is it?
Yes, sir! So for twenty-four pounds a year, I'll go to London.
You will, will you—directly, eh?
Yes, sir, directly.
There's no difficulty in the matter, then?
No, sir, no difficulty at all. I shall be delighted to come.
Oh, very well, Eliza! I'll tell you what—if you like to come to me for half the wages you get here—
Half what I get here? What! six pounds a year less?
Exactly!
Sir, you ought to be ashamed of your self, and it isn't acting like a gentleman!
What isn't?
Trying to allure away a poor servant, who is attached to her employers.
You said the place was slavery.
Well, and if I did, I'd sooner wash the stairs with cold water every morning,
and never have a Sunday out, than go to another place for half my wages; and
I'll take and tell the ladies that you have been trying to seduce me away;
Ah! and I have got this beast of a coat on! I must not risk a first impression in this thing. I'll try and find one of Honeyball's. Recollect, Eliza, six pounds a year, and you're mine!
Am I?—not if I know it! A nice sort of match for Miss Margaret! A master who gives short wages can't be a good husband!
Upon my word, Paul, I don't think that this trick is justifiable.
Necessity, Kate, necessity!
I like it! I shall be able to judge of the character of my admirer, without having to listen to any of his compliments and protestations.
I don't know that! From his whimsical habits, I think that it is to you they will be addressed.
Six pounds!
Where's Eliza? Ah, Eliza!—here!
Yes, sir.
Eliza! listen to me—to me, your master, with the most profound attention. Eliza, for this day only, and by particular desire, my wife is my sister, and my sister my wife.
What will they say to that at Doctor's Commons, sir?
Ha, ha! Understand. girl, that it is for a joke.
A joke? Ah, I see, sir!
Now don't forget, you are to call my sister my wife.
Yes, sir; I am to call your sister my wife.
Don't be a fool! Call Miss Margaret, Mrs. Honeyball.
Yes, sir.
And call Mrs. Honeyball, Miss Margaret.
Yes, sir.
Do you understand the joke?
No, sir.
What an idiot you are! Don't you see?
I am to call you Miss Margaret.
Go to the—go away—go to the devil!—go into the coalhole—shut yourself up, hide yourself, no matter where; but don't let me see you, or—
Oh, thank you, sir!
And, now, don't let us make any blunders. You, Margaret, you must look calmly, and saucily happy, as a married woman, blessed with all she desires in a husband, should look; and you, Kate, you must keep your eyes down, and be shy, and monosyllabic, as you pretended to be when I was courting you. Look out, here he comes!
Come in, my boy—here we are! The ladies have just returned from their walk.
Now let me present you.
Nice!
Mr. Swoppington, my sister, Miss Meg, or shall I say Miss Margaret Honeyball?
Very nice, also!
Yes, my dear friend, this is my sister! My sister Margaret, who is, as she ought to be, delighted, enchanted, to make your acquaintance.
Miss Honeyball, I really—
Go on, young gentleman, go on. My sister was saying—
I say, Madam, when a man is attended by such fortune, when, with so amiable a sister, and so charming a wife—
Well, sir, you will not long have reason to envy the happiness of your friend.
There's a voice—musical as Alboni's; and there's an eye—talk of eyes after
those!
For really I believe Miss Honeyball, whom I consider a most charming young person, has every quality which—
No doubt, Madam.
Well, what do you think of my sister?
Eh?
Come,
You are not going to leave us?
With your intended.
He's hooked, Peg—he's hooked!
They've left me alone with the other—I don't know what to say to her; yes I do! I'll tell her that I don't much think I shall marry her—that will help on the conversation.
I declare he won't even look at me. That's
Madam!
He don't help one much.
Miss Honeyball.
We are alone, sir, as you see, so that if you have anything to say to me—as I suppose you have—
I had intended to say something remarkably civil, but I'll be hanged if I
haven't forgotten what it was. If her sister-in-law were here, now, I could talk
like an angel. Ah! I know.
You think so?
I do indeed.
Yes, but she is of a very uncertain disposition.
An uncertain disposition has a certain charm for me.
She sings; so do I a little—shall I sing you something?
You?—oh, I shall be delighted, of course!
He won't pay me the slightest attention—I'll revenge myself by making him
listen.
A bumpkin bard—the poet of the County Journal, I suppose—a treat, no doubt. Oh, Lord!
I think you will like it.
I'm sure I sha'n't.
By all means.
Now to make one's fate as light as the melancholy circumstances of the case
will allow. I say, what a nice arm chair this is, I'll make Honeyball give me
this chair, see if I don't.
He's gone to sleep. Now, that is a shame, for the air is
remarkably pretty.
Is that the way you make conquests? My dear Kate, I don't mind trusting my lovers with you, you don't betray one's confidence.
Do you know, Margaret, I think he's half an idiot. I've done all I can—I give him up. You may sing the rest of the song, and try if you can do better.
Sleeps still! What a talent he has for sleeping. I'll change the tune.
Eh? What! a transformation?—a fairy tale?—one of Ovid's metamorphoses?
No, it's only me, sir! I have ventured to take the place of my poor sister, whose voice sent you to sleep.
Sleep? good gracious, no! Don't suppose so for a moment. I was only nodding. But don't let me interrupt you, pray continue!
Heyday! how enthusiastic you are all on a sudden; in poor Margaret's presence you were cold and melancholy.
Oh! yes—no—the fact is—fatigue—a long journey, but in your presence,
madam, you see how different I am.
Now for it!
Your presence instantly dispels all my melancholy, and renders me quite another being!
It can hardly be necessary for me to remind you, sir, that you are addressing a wife—the wife of your friend.
I know it, Madam, I know it.
That you have made urgent proposals for the hand of a young lady—that you have been accepted—
True, Madam, true.
And really, I must also inform you that the young lady in question is a paragon of virtue.
Don't chill me with paragons of virtue; for my part, I like a woman with a few faults—I may say, full of faults.
Indeed! If Margaret Honeyball fail to enchant you, I don't know what kind of person would suit you.
I could tell you, if I dared; but I must not. I have seen such a woman; but Paul Honeyball has put perfect happiness out of my power.
Sir, if you persevere in language of this sort—
Forgive me, I mean no offence—but—
I must leave you.
Nay, do not go!
I'll try to hear him out.
The struggle is idle! I must speak! I know I shall get into an awful scrape; but there's no help for it! Oh, Madam, that you should have done this!
Done what?
That you should have gone and married Honeyball!
Well, sir?
No, Madam, it is not well!—read Alfred Tennyson—
—You did not know me then in those days; that, you will say, makes a
difference. But you might have known me—a small voice might have whispered
“Swoppington,” and you might have waited until you did know me. I waited, you
see, madam
Kate.
Just so—I said to myself, there is the adored, the divine Kate, waiting for me. I will treasure up my affections for her; but the divine Kate has not waited, and I am undone, very much undone.
But, sir—
No matter, madam, I forgive you—I will not reproach you—your own heart must reproach you, to say nothing of your husband, who of course renders your life one long misery. Don't tell me he does not, because I know he does—I happen to know he does. But he shall not ill-treat you longer, madam, no, I will protect you from his ferocity. I have read Alexander Dumas, Madam, Eugene Sue, George Sand—and I know my course. I will call him out, madam! I am a dead shot! I will displace him—destroy him—remove him —shoot him, in fact!—you will be a widow—I will marry you, and we'll go together in a cab to the Norwood Cemetery, and weep over his grave!
Wouldn't it be awkward for me to marry a man who had killed my husband?
Oh! but I'll kill him so gently, he sha'n't feel it; he'll rather like it, than not.
There, sir, that will do—a joke is very well—now leave off, or I shall be angry.
I have done, Madam; but I beg you distinctly to understand, that if I am turned out of this house, I shall take you with me.
Me?
Yes. Did you ever read Homer, Mrs. Honeyball? If you have, you will remember that Helen was carried off from Menelaus by Paris. Very good—I'm Paris, you're Helen, Honeyball is Menelaus, and, off we go.
But, as I am a party to the matter—
You! Well, that's true, Madam, listen—did you ever have the tooth-ache?
No, sir.
I'm sorry for that—no—I'm glad of it. I have the toothache sometimes, Madam, and to cure it, I always carry a large bottle of laudanum; that bottle is now on my dressing table, in that room. If you don't consent to leave this house, and to be mine, I'll swallow that bottle, cork, label, and all.
That is too dreadful to contemplate. I consent.
You do, you do, and you won't retract?
I never break my word.
And you will be mine?
I will.
You will!
—
I beg your pardon, old fellow, for leaving you to your own devices; but you know that when the master of a house has been away for a month, and when he's a man of intellect, to whom the household looks up, there are so many things for him to do, and see after—
Don't mention it, I've been very happy.
I should like to know how my plot gets on—I can't find my wife anywhere.
Well, Menelaus, what is it?
Why do you call me Menelaus?
Why shouldn't I?—answer me that!
Because I don't like it—at least, I can't see the—I don't see the fun of it. I don't, upon my honour.
Well, I know I have no right to call you so—yet—but what were you going to say?
Why, my sister—you've seen her, and you say nothing on the subject.
Ah! I must dodge him a little, and see how the land lies.
Anything, my boy—anything!
I knew you'd say so. Now, you are going to share your family with me,—you have but a wife and a sister, and you are going to give one of them to me.
I am.
I mean, of course, your sister—your angelic sister. I adore her—in fact, I am desperately in love with her!
My dear boy, I am rejoiced!
What's the matter?
Can Kate have been playing the coquette?
I love her—I adore her—and I'll marry her directly!
A moment, my friend—a moment! Do me the favour to examine your feelings. Are you sure—perfectly sure—quite certain that it was my sister whom you admire?—you are so changeable.
I changeable! I never changed my mind in all my life!
Delighted!
I have it.
You have it?
Yes, Menelaus.
I tell you not to call me by that name—I don't like it. What—Kate has
consented to marry him!
Didn't you go out and leave us?
Ah! Well, I only want to know, not that it is of much importance; but, you were perfectly respectful, of course.
Respectful! how should you behave, if you were left alone with a young lady?
I? ah! that's another matter. Why, you are an engaged couple, certainly, and you might think—there are trifling ceremonies—you might have thought yourself justified in asking for a —a—kiss, eh?
Well, I should say there was no very great harm in that, under the circumstances.
But I should say there was great harm, under the circumstances, very great harm.
What a fuss you make about nothing! and me too—why you couldn't make more fuss if I had been kissing your wife!
My wife?—no, I shouldn't have made half such a fuss!
What do you say? Well, now, I'll call that the height of hospitality!
Pooh, pooh! what am I saying?—I don't mean
Your sister is worth a dozen of her—and to prove that I think so, I'll marry her directly:
Never!
What! not marry her?
Never!
Opposed again. Do you mean to say I shan't marry your sister?
I do!
But I will, I tell you. Oh, Honeyball!
I am resolved.
I who have known and loved her so long!
Eh! what?—why you met her to-day only, for the first time.
You think so.
What do I hear? distraction!
Yes, we met at Ramsgate, two years ago; we flirted on the Pier, raffled in
the libraries, danced at Tivoli, and sat upon the
And this is my wife, upon whom I believed I had made the first impression! Raffled at Ramsgate, and I have married such a woman!
Married his sister?—the man's mad!
Oh, here you are, Paul.
Wicked woman!
What's the matter with you?
Woman, prepare for my vengeance! You, Madam, I will drag before that respectable family, the Ecclesiastical Court— and as for your lover—
What lover?—tell me, there's a dear!
You, sir, I will have your life.
You certainly won't; I want it myself—it's the only thing of mine that I value.
But, Honeyball.
Back, Madam, don't Honeyball me!
Paul!
I'll go and fetch all the rural police of the district, horse and foot.
What can this anger mean?
I only told him that I insisted on marrying his sister.
Ah! then you will marry her?
Never!
Please do, you are bound in honour.
You desire it? I'll do what I can; but don't you lose sight of me, or I shall certainly break down.
He's here!
Who's here?
Mr. Census, he's here; master sent to him to come, and I was to tell you, miss, who are not m0iss, that missis, who is not missis—no, don't let me make a mistake—master, who is Miss Margaret—I don't know, but here's Mr. Census.
Then, you swear to me, Kate, by all the oaths in the world, that you never flirted at Ramsgate, and never sat on the sands to look at the bathing machines?
I swear to you, I was never out of London until you married me.
On consideration, that affidavit is satisfactory. Then it is not you whom he—
Hold your tongue.
Are you sure it is you whom he—
Hold your tongue.
What a nice stick.
There now, sir, you've pulled the head off.
Never mind, I say—I'll buy this of you.
I don't want to sell it.
I'll give you my umbrella for it.
I tell you it was a present, and I don't want to part with it.
A muff! What good glasses these are, just my sight. I never can get my sight, not even at Dolland's.
Now, Mr. Honeyball; you sent for me to arrange for a marriage. You must come to my office, and if you'll give me the names I'll get everything ready. Hollo! where are they?—I had them, just this moment.
Had what?
My spectacles.
Eh! where can they be?
There they are—those are mine, sir.
I'll give you my umbrella for them.
Nonsense, sir.
Oh, you needn't be in such a hurry, you've nearly pulled my nose off—I don't like my nose, but it would be inconvenient to have it pulled off.
Now, Mr. Honeyball!
All right!
Then all you have to do is to sign this paper. Now, Miss Honeyball.
What are you talking about? Miss Honeyball, indeed!
Confound you, what do you mean by calling me a blunderer? Once for all, does Miss Honeyball mean to sign or not?
What—again—what?
Hallo! he's going it again. Are you satisfied?
Yes, I am perfectly satisfied, for the first time in my life. Satisfied with what has fallen to my lot, and my dear little wife, here, will confirm me, I hope, in my good intentions for the future, for I give her due notice, it will be her fault, and not mine, if I ever wish for a change again.
If you should, sir, I should be happy to come to you— for double my present wages—and my tea and sugar.
Still, I must say, I hope for the sake of the author of the little plot we have just unravelled, that it will be the opinion of all present, that for once, at least, “Anything for a Change” has proved better than no change at all.