No ; go away! Susan! Su— (awaking) Ah! Goodness ! What a dream!—I have been asleep —I see how it was. Wearied out, I—I fell asleep before having called Susan, (rising) I must ring for her at once., (looking at clock on chimney piece) Four o’clock! Impossible! Four o’clock! and my ball terminated at one! What! 1 have slept three hours in that chair—and, only imagine—such a dream as I have had! That I should dream of Mr. Spitely—my opposite neighbour—he asked me to become his wife, and I refused. I did not dream that, for that was a reality which occurred some days ago! And only yesterday he wrote threatening to compromise me; and, at all hazards, to prevent my marriage with Augustus! Horrid man! He persecutes me and pursues me everywhere, even in my dreams! The very thought of it—but I must ring for Susan. (dugs bell beside fire-place) Poor girl! she has no doubt been here, and seeing me asleep, was afraid to awaken me. (listening) Not a soul—neither her nor Joseph ! They have followed my example, no doubt, and have fallen asleep in the ante­chamber. I will go and arouse them, and send them off at once to their rooms! (she takes lamp from table and goes off, door, L., leaving stage still lighted by lamps on chimney-piece after a moment, a loud snore is heard behind the window curtains)—

Who's that snoring in such a dreadful manner ? (he partly opens the window curtains, and is seen in a ball dress, and huddled in an easy chair) Nobody here! It must have been me! it’s just like me; I sleep so tumultuously that I awake myself! (rising and coming forward) The fact is that I needed those few moments of gentle repose! Yesterday evening, I left the small but highly respectable town of Dunsford—(stopping) May I venture to recite this to myself? Yes; everybody is in the ball room, dancing, and playing whist, and—well—(resuming) Yesterday evening, I left the small but highly respectable town of Dunsford, and arrived this morning in London, having travelled all night by railway. I took a cab from the station, and was driven to the residence of my nephew, number twenty-four, Tight Street. I tendered the cabman sixpence, which he indignantly—and with anything but classical language—declined to accept. His fare, he said, was half-a-crown. It might have been; I am not well up in it — and my nephew, he happened to be from home for a day and a night. This evening, I dined alone—and still at table—the dessert before me—one orange, two apples, and five nuts— when all at once, my old friend Buncombe walks in. “ Will you spend the evening with me," says he. " With great pleasure," says I. “ Then,” says he, " put on your dress coat and patent boots, and I will take you to a ball.” I take leave to inform Buncombe that I didn't come to London to dance; but he informs me that I shall meet at that ball a person—an important functionary—a chairman of our railway—of whom I have great need. So at ten o'clock we arrive at Mrs. Montgomery’s—a young widow—with whom I have no acquaintance. Being a widower myself, I am very partial to widows. To be a conqueror in that struggle till death, which is called marriage, proves a certain superiority. Buncombe presents me, and then we push through the crowd in search of my chairman. I get a great many digs in the ribs from a great many elbows, : and I dig a few myself. After about a quarter of an hour Of this liberal exchange, Buncombe says to me, “Your chairman can't have arrived yet; I shall go and have a game at whist. Do you go and pay your court to the mistress of the house.” Then I say, “Yes,” and I don’t go—for two reasons—the first, that I don’t like talking with women; it—always reminds me of the dear wife I have lost, who talked  great deal too much, and generally in a very loud voice; the second, that having been all night on the railway, I was tired. So, what did I do? I stole—no, slipped—pooh! I am alone. I stole into this boudoir; and here I have had a few minutes' sleep—-my chairman hadn’t arrived; and I hope now that i he isn’t gone. Some chairmen can’t rest two minutes in the same place. I must put on my gloves again, and re-arrange my cravat, (places himself before looking glass, R.)—

(aside) Nobody ! They have not waited, it seems, for my orders to retire. Thought, no doubt, that I had forgotten them, (seeing Fitzhoward) Ah! some one here ?

(aside) Oh ! the  mistress of—

Sir—who are you?

Fitzhoward—Alexander Fitzhoward. (gallantly taking the lamp from her hand and placing it on table, R. C. ) Allow me, madam—introduced this evening by Buncombe—you know Buncombe—the man with the big nose.—.

(L. C. ) But, sir, the ball is over.

Already, you are joking?

Joking! It is four o'clock in the morning!

Four o'clock! (hastily looking at his watch) So it is! twenty minutes past four. I have been put right by the Horse Guards.

I’ll go and knock them up. I don’t mean the doors— the others. You know ?

You would not think of such a thing ?

Servants are made to be knocked up. They don’t mind if they are paid, and I’ll give them a shilling amongst them. How many are they?—not above seven or eight, I daresay.

It is impossible, sir! What would be said, should you be seen leaving my house, and three hours after every one else is gone ?

Well, but excuse me, you don’t intend to make me stop here, do you ?

Oh, sir!

Then, madam, let us go to work systematically. The only way to leave a house, is by the door.

(timidly) Or—(crossing and pointing to it) Or by the window.

(R. C. ) Yes, when we happen to be on the ground floor; but this is the second story.

(L. C. ) The first, sir—the ground floor only is beneath us.

Well, the ground floor, that’s one, and this is two— the second story of course!

Sir—you are a gentleman ?

Me? Oh, dear, no—I’m a churchwarden.

You would not wish to render a lady the victim of a situation which you yourself have created—

I?

By falling asleep ?

That's true.

You cannot, then, refuse me. (pointing to window)

Try—

To jump out of window ? Excuse me, madam, but there are certain things which no one has the right to propose to a merchant, and especially a churchwarden, who is verging on fifty—to confess the truth, has actually passed it.

(still entreating) Sir, my honour is in question, you have compromised me—

(hesitating) I’m very sorry; and if we were on the ground floor certainly, I—I would jump—as a brave man, I would take the daring step!

(taking his hand and drawing him towards window) I entreat you—the night is dark, the street deserted.

But are you asphalted ? (they have reached the window, Mrs. Montgomery half opens the curtains and drops them again immediately)

(frightened, and thrusting Fitzhoward from her) Ah! Withdraw!

(running and hiding behind door, L.) Eh—what ?

(in a low tone) There is a light at the window opposite.

(behind door) Tell ’em to put it out and go to bed— ought to be ashamed to keep such dreadful hours 1

Wretched spy !

You don’t mean me, I hope ?

No, no; a man who has sworn to destroy me.

The murdering, thief ! I hope he hasn’t taken any oath on my account.

He must not see you!

(advancing) So much the better, then I shan’t have to jump from the window—I’m out of that, (sits on couch)

(after a pause, C.) Ah, we are saved !

(shocked) What! till to-morrow morning, oh! (jumps up and runs behind the couch)

I mean till daybreak; at seven o’clock the servants will open the doors, and you may then leave unobserved.

(advancing towards her) Quite impossible!

Oh, sir—for the sake of my happiness! for it is necessary I should tell you all, I am on the point of entering into a second marriage with one whom I love—and—I have my reputation to preserve.

Well—and haven’t I got my reputation to preserve?

(smiling) Oh! a man’s reputation.

Yes, some men—but, I am a different sort of man— I am a highly moral man—I have reached, madam, the age of fifty-three, and am as innocent as a lamb!

(gently taking his hat from him) Do not refuse me. (indicating easy chair near fire-place) Seat yourself there. Besides, it is all your fault, you had no business to go to sleep in my boudoir.

(yielding, crossing over, and sitting, R.) You are settling it very nicely. If you had passed the night on a railway, with a fellow sitting opposite to you who kept on stretching out his long legs and kicking all the bark off your shins.

(R. C. ) What a pity that the fire has gone out!

(seated, L.) A good example—I wish I could follow it.

You will be quite comfortable there! —

Shall I? I should prefer a feather bed though, for all that.

(getting a cushion from the couch and placing it behind FitzHoward’s back) See, sir—let me place this cushion so —  at your back.

That’s a little better.

(bringing a stool from before the easy chair near table) And this stool for your feet.

I am sure you are very good, but—(settling himself in the chair) for all that. I was a confounded fool to come to your ball.

I am very sorry, I am sure—quite in despair.

You don’t feel so miserable as I do, I know, (closes his eyes and turns round in chair)

The glare of those lamps, perhaps? (lowers the two lamps on the chimney-piece) There, that's better, is it not ?

(huddling himself in chair) Nothing’s better—it’s all worse.—.—.

(goes to table, R. C., and busies herself with her  jewel casket—a pause) You have not been in London, till now, for a long time ?

(all of a heap, his eyes closed) No.

Do you like our city?

(louder) No.

Your home is in the country, I believe?

(slewing himself round, and opening his eyes) Excuse me, ma’am, are you like all the rest of your sex—must you talk or die ?

Oh, no, sir, only I thought I might amuse you.

Let me alone and I’ll amuse myself—I’ll go to sleep.—_

Oh, sir, if you wish it——.

Retire to your own room, put on your nightcap, and go to bed.

Oh, sir!

You needn’t mind me—bolt your door—I'm a moral churchwarden — aged fifty-three, (shutting his eyes)  Good night.

Good night, sir. (looking at him) Yes, the  best thing I can do is to let him sleep, (places herself before glass, R., and withdraws successively several pins from her hair - about to take off her wreath, finds that is still held)  Why it is not yet free!—,

Pray don’t keep on tit-tit tap-tap—I can’t bear it; (slewing himself round towards her) Shall I come and help you?

Pray do not disturb yourself. I am removing my head-dress—but there are so many pins——.

(rising, going to her, and looking for the pin)  Yes I know a parcel of women with as many pins in their head as they have got hairs on it. When I say a parcel of women- you will understand I don't mean you. (taking off tho wreath) There!

Thank you.

While I am about it, shall I unhook you.

Sir!

(with indifference) Oh, I merely offered—I’d rather not have the trouble, I tell you. (beats up his cushion and re-seats himself in easy chair)

(taking up her jewel caskets and crown of flowers and lamp from table) Now 1 will leave you. Good night, sir.

Yes, go along—good night—bolt your door.

(aside) Why does he tell me that! (aloud) I will rouse you at seven o'clock.

Perhaps I shall disturb you before then.

(surprised—aside) Eh! It is really very strange. I have a presentiment that—I suspect some mystery, and am almost afraid—but I will say nothing now, and to-morrow— (aloud) Good night, sir.

Bolt the door. (Mrs. Montgomery goes off door R.) And this is what comes after the party. I hope she don't mean to bother me any more, (rising) I'll bolt the door my­self. (goes to door, R. ) Ah! of course, no bolt on this side at all—and I have never clapt eyes on my chairman—shall be obliged to-go back home without having seen him—for what brings me to London, (confidentially) This is between ourselves, 1 have told nobody but Buncombe, (pulls a staring cotton handkerchief from his pocket and ties it round his head) I am seeking to obtain authority to take the name of Fitzhoward— Alexander Fitzhoward—not that my real name is at all ridiculous, far from it. (looking around) There is nobody about, so-my real name is—it was originally a Russian name, I believe—is—Mizzleandcutof— yes, it's a Russian name, there's so doubt about that. Yes—promise you won't say a word—but Alexander Mizzleandcutoff, that's my real name. But my nephew don't like it—wants to change it—he's about to mix up in some financial matters, going to start a bank, I believe, and he says that Mizzleandcutof wouldn't do. I don't see that myself—I should think Mizzleandcutoff would do—but, I wrote to him," Renounce your marriage and I will change my name.” (arranging cushion, die., and again curling himself in chair) For he wants to get married—but I wouldn't hear of it—a London woman in my family?—never! (closing his eyes) He must marry a girl from the country! (closes his eyes, re-opens them after a moment and places his hands on his stomach) Oh! I’ve got the cramp in my stomach! (jumping up) I’m seriously ill— I can’t help it—I’m very sorry, but Mrs. Montgomery must run for a doctor. Ah! I know now what it is, I’m hungry !— while the others were having supper, I was asleep I (taking lamp from mantel-piece) I must go and see if I can't find some­thing, if it’s only a turkey or so; a good strong application of that sort of would soon cure my complaint I

(troubled) Where is he going ? Certainly there is something extraordinary in all this, just now he feigned to be fast asleep—insisted that I should go to my room—and now he is marching about the house ! The indifference that he affected while removing my wreath, and in his proposition to unhook me, and bis talk of his fifty-three years—all that is not natural! Have I fallen into a trap ? If he should be that wretch, Spitely! I do not know him—have but once, and scarcely, perceived him at his window—he appeared to me to be younger, but who shall say that be has not disguised himself in order that he might present himself here before me? People do not fall asleep in a boudoir on a ball night without —

There he is! (stands aside near the fire-place)

(not seeing Mrs. Montgomery, and placing the tray on table, R. C. ) I have found a partridge. He's good company, and 1’11 talk to him directly.—-

(aside) He is going to sup.

I shan't be sorry to recover a little strength.

(aside) Eh?

Confound it! now I have disarranged my wig !

(aside, at back) His wig. I suspected it.

Happily the young widow is not here to— She is comfortably sleeping.

(aside) What shall I do? I must be calm. (approaches and arranges tray at table, R. C.) .

(perceiving her in the glass turns quickly towards her) You, madam? you here? I thought you were fast asleep.

(L. C.) And so I thought were you.

(R. C., confused) Yes, so I am—only—I was so hungry—and this partridge—will you have a bit?

No, thank you, I am not hungry.

I am—I have the appetite of an ostrich.

(pointedly) Or of a young man?

Yes, of half-a-dozen young men.

Well, sir, be seated.

With great pleasure, (pointing to a chair) But first, if you would be good enough to —

(sitting L. of table) Thank you, allow me to fill for you.

(seated R. of table) As fast as you like, (eating) Confess that you think it is very unfortunate that I am not five and twenty, instead of fifty-three, (drinks)

Why so, sir?

Because a partridge—sparkling wine—and the society of a charming woman—(drinks)

(aside) Now we are coming to it!

Suppose for a moment that I am not fifty-three.

(quickly) You confess it?

No, I don’t confess, I suppose—unfortunately I can only suppose—that’s all. (drinks)

(aside) Oh! I will compel him to betray himself.

And behold us together at five o’clock in the morning. (looking at his watch) That’s the time—I’m right by the Horse Guards—you are seated beside me with no mistrust.

(aside) Oh, indeed! (aloud) Do you know, sir, what it is that renders women strong ?

I have heard say that it’s what’s called calisthenics and gymnastics.

(boldly) It is their seeming weakness—they are not mistrusted—they advance boldly, and so they often triumph.

I don’t understand what you are talking about.

Shall I give you an example ?

Yes, talk away now. I’ll listen to you while I’m eating —or rather, no—I’ll eat while I’m listening to you.

It is the history of what happened to a friend of mine—she was young.—

Like you.

A widow——

Like you.

And, like me, on the point of contracting a second marriage.

It is only for that purpose that women become widows.

One evening, ’twas in the country, she was alone, when she received a visit from a gentleman of respectable appearance, of about fifty-two or fifty-three years of age-—

Like me in every particular.

Like you : he said he was a merchant.

And a churchwarden, perhaps— .—,

Perhaps so. The hours sped on, night had arrived, and my friend felt compelled to ask this gentleman to stay dinner. Behold them, then, at table.

(eating) Like us.

(rising slowly and observing Fitzhoward) By certain signs—by the lightness of his manner—the vivacity of his eyes— my friend perceived that her guest was a young man disguised.

Bravo! (greatly delighted) I guess the denouement!— the elderly gentleman took off his wig, and threw it at the  lady's feet, (dashes his napkin on the tablet and is about to rise Mrs. Montgomery extends her hand to stop him)

No.

(calmly) Ah! what then! (taking his glass)

(pointedly) He had not time; (pointing to his glass) for in the wine that he had drank, the lady had poured a deadly poison.

(rising quickly) Poison ?

(aside) It is he. (aloud) No, sir, have no fear; but  (severely) do you think, really, that your conduct is that of a gentleman ?—-

(confused) Well, I—I found the partridge on the side- board—-and I was hungry—and—

I have refused you my hand. Is it my fault that I love another? Is that a reason why you should destroy me in the eyes of the world ?

I ? I’ll take my solemn oath——

This disguise is useless. Your name is not Fitzhoward.

(aside) Eh!—she knows ! (aloud, greatly troubled) It is true, madam. That—that name—

Take off that wig.

(stunned) Eh?

Do not tell me again that you are fifty-three years of age, Mr. Spitely.

Who's Mr. Spitely—me?

Undoubtedly.—.

It’s a mistake—a decided mistake. Certainly I am fifty-three—there’s no mistake there, unfortunately; and I have worn a wig for the last ten years, unfortunately.

(confused) Then I have been deceived.

Very likely.

I beg your pardon; but I was so troubled that I was really so stupid as to mistake you for a young man.

A very natural mistake, I flatter myself.

(graciously) Pray resume your supper.

(crosses  L. ) Thank you—my appetite is gone.

(offering him a glass of wine and smiling) Fear nothing; I am not a Lucretia Borgia.

Then I’m not dead? Well, that is one comfort; but I am not thirsty now, thank you—that interesting history of yours—

(R. C., placing glass on table) Oh! a mere fancy sketch.

Never mind—it wasn’t good seasoning with my partridge, and I don’t feel comfortable at all. (sits in easy chair near fireplace)

Mercy on me!—you are ill!

Salts!—vinegar! Something—anything—everything!

Yes—yes. A moment—only a moment.

I shall be laid up —and perhaps I shall be laid out— and they call this going out into society! (rising) I believe a little fresh air would do me good; I can’t breathe here, (opens the window) Not daylight yet. (noise as of an opposite window being thrown violently open)

Sir!

(hastily retreating and letting the curtains fall) Oh I— the fellow over the way. (in a low tone) I suppose he never goes to bed.

You shall account to me for your conduct.

Means to challenge me, no doubt.

No use to conceal yourself. I know you, Mr. Mizzleandcutoff.

(greatly surprised) My name!—he knows my name!

I shall be with you at ten in the morning—number  twenty-four, Tight Street.

My address! (rushing to the window) But, sir—

Good night, (the window is heard to close)

Stop—excuse me—

Here, sir. What do I see ? That window open ?

Excuse me—I wanted some oxygen.

(frightened) And Mr. Spitely has seen you ?

It’s very strange—that fellow knows me.

Knows you ?

Knows my address, number twenty-four, Tight Street.

(greatly astonished) How? You reside—

At number twenty-four, Tight Street, with my nephew, Augustus Mizzleandcutoff— Fitzhoward.

(aside) Augustus ! Uncle !

Where has he seen me ? How did he know me ? I haven’t been in London before, for twenty-three years!

(aside) He has mistaken him for his nephew. (aloud) It is very simple—that gentleman was no doubt here this evening in the crowd—heard you named, and now would provoke you to—

(quickly) Oh! don’t be afraid, I know what I am about; I shan’t fight with him, I shall apologize.

Apologize ! what for ?

I don’t know, but I shall apologise.

And to-morrow I shall be the talk of the whole town—my marriage will be broken off, and it is you who— (pretending great distress) Oh, sir! why did you open that window ?

Because I couldn’t do without a fresh supply of oxygen and carbon.

What do you think will become of me ?

(aside) She’s going to cry !

When the future lay before me so sweet and smiling—ah! I am lost! I have now only to die!

Allow me, madam—

Oh ! I know what you are going to do! You are about to propose to marry me!

I ? decidedly not I “ None wed the second, but who killed the first,” as Shakspeare says. I have taken a widower to remain a vow. (collecting himself) No ; I mean a vow to remain a——

And yet, sir, if I insisted—

Couldn’t do it, impossible! I should make you miserable. Sometimes my temper is awful!

But then you have a son, of course ?

Of course I haven’t, heaven has refused me that blessing, up to the present moment. I have no beloved son who is legitimately anxious to inherit my money and effects; and as I am a widower, it would be very improper if—

You have perhaps a brother ?—a nephew ?

A nephew ? Yes, I have a nephew.

Then it is for him to repair the wrong which you have inflicted on my honour.

Well, he wishes to get married.

Oh! indeed?

And I have opposed it. The best way to prevent him marrying his London lady, would be to compel him to marry you—it will be a good joke to play him.

A joke!

No, no—I mean, a good lark—he shall marry you.

(aside) He is coming to it. (aloud) But should he refuse ?

Then I’ll cut him off with nothing. Besides, why should he refuse? He is an elegant young man—so are you

Sir!

I mean, you are young.

Twenty-two.

Not bad-looking, rich—for you must be rich or—-

Twenty thousand pounds.

Twenty thousand! Charming—you, I mean—yes, you are charming, (aside) Twenty thousand pounds! (aloud) But let us see. Yes, I don’t see why, since it is I who have compromised you—(aside) Twenty thousand!—(aloud) I don’t see why I should force my poor nephew to marry you.

Eh ?

Considering that I am here —for I am here.

 You !—

Certainly. I have committed the fault, it is for me to repair it.

But, sir, allow me.—'

Not another word—I’ll marry you. Twenty thousand—

Eh ?

Twenty thousand times rather than—

But I refuse. With respect to your nephew.

My nephew, my nephew. I have deceived you—he is tremendously ugly—frightful!

(aside) The wicked story-teller!

He is three years older than I am—sixty-two if he is a day. His father was my elder brother by an early marriage with his first wife’s sister.

Oh!

Well, it’s all settled, then, you accept me?

Never!

(crossing, R. ) Then, madam, I shall be under the stern necessity of compelling you.

(frightened) How?

By completely and thoroughly compromising you.

But you have said that you should render me miserable—

It would only be with too much love—(passionately) for I do love you, I adore you! And if you refuse me, I will open the doors, the windows—I will call, will shout, will fight—

Oh, this is terrible!

When passion rules me, I am capable of everything, even of opening a window, (taking a step, she stops him)

Do not—

(joyfully) You consent?

Mrs. M. (resignedly) I consent, (falls into a chair near fire­place)

Thank you, thank you! Ah! I have something to say that will delight you—I have told you that I was fifty-three, I give you my honour I am nothing of the sort—I am only fifty-two and eight months.

What matters ? Only, sir, as we are now situated, allow me to charge you with a delicate mission.

Anything you please, madam! (with great joy) any­thing—anything!

(pointing to mantel-piece) You will find, in that coffer, letters and a portrait, presents that I have accepted. You will be good enough, sir, to restore them to the person from whom I have received them, (she rises)

(crossing L., and taking coffer from mantel-piece) Excuse me—but—

As you are about to become my husband——

Ah! that’s true ! (opening a letter)

Oh ! do not read, sir.

As you are about to become my wife—

Ah! that’s true!

(running over the letter) Oh, oh ! I say—"a thousand burning kisses”—that’s too hot!

(vexed) Allow me—(aside) Twenty thousand pounds! (aloud) Your honour exacts it—I have compromised you.

(smiling) Oh! an uncle of fifty-three.

I beg your pardon, fifty-two—

And eight months.

No matter—a man may be a man at fifty-two and eight months.

And besides, in what have you compromised me ? Is it not quite natural that an uncle who arrives in London should pay a visit to his niece ? Uncle—(pointing to door L.) that way you will find your chamber.

Ah! you have a chamber?

Which stays for you.

And you didn’t tell me so! Bundled me into an arm chair, when all the while you had a feather bed—of course it is a feather bed.

(meekly) Yes, uncle

Ah! it can’t be more downy than you are though.

To-morrow your luggage shall be brought here, and you shall instal yourself as my guest.

To be sure; nobody can have anything to say against  that.

(pointing towards window) Not even our opposite neighbour.

He ? Wait a minute—(goes to and throws open window) wait a minute !

What would you do, uncle?

Wait, and you’ll see, niece, (calling) Hi—you—sir— mister, (window opposite heard to open violently) Sorry if I disturb you?

(savagely) Well, what do you want?

(taking Mrs. Montgomery’s hand, standing with her before the window) Merely to inform you that I have given my consent that my niece, Mrs. Henrietta Montgomery, whom, in your presence, I now and hereby kiss—(she shrinks) on the forehead, (she bends towards him, and he kisses her on the fore­head in an uncle-like way.

(shouting) Well?

Shall be immediately married to my nephew, Mr. Augustus Mizzleandcutoff Fitzhoward, whom I hereby kiss. (suddenly recollecting) No!

(shouting) Well?

And on the occasion of the wedding dinner, we respectfully hope—

Uncle?

Not to have your company!

Ugh! (the window is slammed down)

There ! I have done the polite, and now I’ll go to bed!

(gives him lamp from table, goes up with him, and opens door, L.) Good night, uncle ! You shall be called at noon.

Noon.? Say two o’clock; we require a good deal of sleep at fifty-two and eight months!

Very well. Good night, uncle.

Good night, niece ! Of course, I must kiss you again on the forehead! (he does so, and Mrs. Montgomery goes towards door, R.) The dignity of an uncle is rather difficult to maintain!

(having opened door, R. ) Good night!

Excuse me! (looking round to see that he is alone) I have a profound remark to make.(altering his mind) No,

I shall go to bed. (goes up to door, L., lamp in hand)  Eh? Well—yes—I will—(returns to footlights)—the fact is—

What is the matter, uncle?

Eh ? What do you want ? I kissed you, didn’t I—on the forehead—you surely don’t want me to give you the other nine hundred and ninety-eight burning kisses?

I thought that you, perhaps, had something more to say to me.—. .

No ; but (gaping) before I go to bed, I fancied it would be only right if I should speak to—(indicating Audience)—:

Oh! certainly, and in that I will assist you. (to Audience) My uncle wished to say that our happiness still depends on you, and that, if you refuse to ratify, with your favour——.

I didn’t wish to say anything of the sort! I merely wished to remark that I don’t like to lose my night’s rest, and, that they’re keeping me up now—

(reproachfully) Oh, uncle! was that all you had to say?

No, it wasn’t— I wished to tell ’em too, that it will do ’em good the next time they catch me after a Party.