PART XVII A BOMB SHELL

In a Gallery near the Verney Chamber. Time—Same as that of the preceding Part.

Spurrell (to himself). I must say it's rather rough luck on that poor devil. I get his dress suit, and all he comes in for is my booby-trap! (Phillipson, wearing a holland blouse over her evening toilette, approaches from the other end of the passage; he does not recognise her until the moment of collision.) Emma!! It's never you! How do you come to be here?

Phillipson (to herself). Then it was my Jem after all! (Aloud, distantly.) I'm here in attendance on Lady Maisie Mull, being her maid. If I was at all curious—which I'm not—I might ask you what you're doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please!

Spurrell. I'm in evening dress, Emma, such as it is (not that I've any right to find fault with it); but I'm in evening dress (with dignity) because I've been included in the dinner party here.

Phillipson. You must have been getting on since I knew you. Then you were studying to be a horse-doctor.

Spurrell. I have got on. I am now a qualified M.R.C.V.S.

Phillipson. And does that qualify you to dine with bishops and countesses and baronets and the gentry, like one of themselves?

Spurrell. I don't say it does, in itself. It was my Andromeda that did the trick, Emma.

Phillipson. Andromeda? They were talking of that downstairs. What made you take to scribbling, James?

Spurrell. Scribbling? how do you mean? My handwriting's easy enough to read, as you ought to know very well.

Phillipson. You can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's so long since I've seen it!

Spurrell. Come, I like that! When I wrote twice to say I was sorry we'd fallen out; and never got a word back!

Phillipson. If you'd written to the addresses I gave you abroad——

Spurrell. Then you did write; but none of the letters reached me. I never even knew you'd gone abroad. I wrote to the old place. And so did you, I suppose, not knowing I'd moved my lodgings too, so naturally—— But what does it all matter, so long as we've met and it's all right between us? Oh, my dear girl, if you only knew how I worried myself, thinking you were—— Well, all that's over now, isn't it?

[He attempts to embrace her.

Phillipson (repulsing him). Not quite so fast, James. Before I say whether we're to be as we were or not, I want to know a little more about you. You wouldn't be here like this if you hadn't done something to distinguish yourself.

Spurrell. Well, I don't say I mayn't have got a certain amount of what they call "kudosh," owing to Andromeda. But what difference does that make?

Phillipson. Tell me, James, is it you that's been writing a pink book all over silver cutlets?

Spurrell. Me? Write a book—about cutlets—or anything else! Emma, you don't suppose I've quite come down to that! Andromeda's the name of my bull-dog. I took first prize with her; there were portraits of both of us in one of the papers. And the people here were very much taken with the dog, and—and so they asked me to dine with them. That's how it was.

Phillipson. I should have thought, if they asked one of you to dine, it ought to have been the bull-dog.

Spurrell. Now what's the good of saying extravagant things of that sort? Not that old Drummy couldn't be trusted to behave anywhere!

Phillipson. Better than her master, I dare say. I heard of your goings on with some Lady Rhoda or other!

Spurrell. Oh, the girl I sat next to at dinner? Nice chatty sort of girl; seems fond of quadrupeds——

Phillipson. Especially two-legged ones! You see, I've been told all about it!

Spurrell. I assure you, I didn't go a step beyond the most ordinary civility. You're not going to be jealous because I promised I'd give her a liniment for one of her dogs, are you?

Phillipson. Liniment! You always were a flirt, James! But I'm not jealous. I've met a very nice-spoken young man while I've been here; he sat next to me at supper, and paid me the most beautiful compliments, and was most polite and attentive—though he hasn't got as far as liniment, at present.

Spurrell. But, Emma, you're not going to take up with some other fellow just when we've come together again?

Phillipson. If you call it "coming together," when I'm down in the housekeeper's room, and you're up above, carrying on with ladies of title!

Spurrell. Do you want to drive me frantic? As if I could help being where I am! How could I know you were here?

Phillipson. At all events, you know now, James. And it's for you to choose between your smart lady friends and me. If you're fit company for them, you're too grand for one of their maids.

Spurrell. My dear girl, don't be unreasonable! I'm expected back in the drawing-room, and I can't throw 'em over now all of a sudden without giving offence. There's the interests of the firm to consider, and it's not for me to take a lower place than I'm given. But it's only for a night or two, and you don't really suppose I wouldn't rather be where you are if I was free to choose—but I'm not, Emma, that's the worst of it!

Phillipson. Well, go back to the drawing-room, then; don't keep Lady Rhoda waiting for her liniment on my account. I ought to be in my ladies' rooms by this time. Only don't be surprised if, whenever you are free to choose, you find you've come back just too late—that's all!

[She turns to leave him.

Spurrell (detaining her). Emma, I won't let you go like this! Not before you've told me where I can meet you again here.

Phillipson. There's no place that I know of—except the housekeeper's room; and of course you couldn't descend so low as that.... James, there's somebody coming! Let go my hand—do you want to lose me my character!

[Steps and voices are heard at the other end of the passage; she frees herself, and escapes.

Spurrell (attempting to follow). But, Emma, stop one—— She's gone!... Confound it, there's the butler and a page-boy coming! It's no use staying up here any longer. (To himself, as he goes downstairs.) It's downright torture—that's what it is! To be tied by the leg in the drawing-room, doing the civil to a lot of girls I don't care a blow about; and to know that all the time some blarneying beggar downstairs is doing his best to rob me of my Emma! Flesh and blood can't stand it; and yet I'm blest if I see any way out of it without offending 'em all round.

[He enters the Chinese Drawing-room.

In the Chinese Drawing-room.

Miss Spelwane. At last, Mr. Spurrell! We began to think you meant to keep away altogether. Has anybody told you why you've been waited for so impatiently?

Spurrell (looking round the circle of chairs apprehensively). No. Is it family prayers, or what? Er—are they over?

Miss Spelwane. No, no; nothing of that sort. Can't you guess? Mr. Spurrell, I'm going to be very bold, and ask a great, great favour of you. I don't know why they chose me to represent them; I told Lady Lullington I was afraid my entreaties would have no weight; but if you only would——

Spurrell (to himself). They're at it again! How many more of 'em want a pup! (Aloud.) Sorry to be disobliging, but——

Miss Spelwane (joining her hands in supplication). Not if I implore you? Oh, Mr. Spurrell, I've quite set my heart on hearing you read aloud to us. Are you really cruel enough to refuse?

Spurrell. Read aloud! Is that what you want me to do? But I'm no particular hand at it. I don't know that I've ever read aloud—except a bit out of the paper now and then—since I was a boy at school!

Lady Cantire. What's that I hear? Mr. Spurrell professing incapacity to read aloud? Sheer affectation! Come, Mr. Spurrell, I am much mistaken if you are wanting in the power to thrill all hearts here. Think of us as instruments ready to respond to your touch. Play upon us as you will; but don't be so ungracious as to raise any further obstacles.

Spurrell (resignedly). Oh, very well, if I'm required to read, I'm agreeable.

[Murmurs of satisfaction.

Lady Cantire. Hush, please, everybody! Mr. Spurrell is going to read. My dear Bishop, if you wouldn't mind just—— Lord Lullington, can you hear where you are? Where are you going to sit, Mr. Spurrell? In the centre will be best. Will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to give him more light?

Spurrell (to himself, as he sits down). I wonder what we're supposed to be playing at! (Aloud.) Well, what am I to read, eh?

Miss Spelwane (placing an open copy of "Andromeda" in his hands with a charming air of deferential dictation). You might begin with this—such a dear little piece! I'm dying to hear you read it!

"YOU MIGHT BEGIN WITH THIS—SUCH A DEAR LITTLE PIECE."

Spurrell (as he takes the book). I'll do the best I can! (He looks at the page in dismay.) Why, look here, it's poetry! I didn't bargain for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line!

[Miss Spelwane opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he begins to read in a perfunctory monotone, with deepening bewilderment and disgust—

(After the murmur of conventional appreciation has died away.) Well, of course, I don't set up for a judge of such things myself, but I must say, if I was asked my opinion—of all the downright tommy-rot I ever—— (The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page.) I say, though, I do call this rather rum! Who the dickens is Clarion Blair? Because I never heard of him—and yet it seems he's been writing poetry on my bull-dog!

Miss Spelwane (faintly). Writing poetry—about your bull-dog!

Spurrell. Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be—Andromeda!

[Tableau.