He has even thought of a stick of violet sealing-wax; after that there can be no excuse.
ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (She sits down.) If any one calls I am not at home.
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my auto—autobiography.
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James?
JAMES. I believe so, Miss.
ROSEMARY. Thank you. (He goes to the door.) Oh, James?
JAMES. Yes, Miss?
ROSEMARY. What is an autobiography?
JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss—not to explain it properly.
ROSEMARY (dismayed). Oh, James! … I thought you knew everything.
JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and then——
ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. … How would it be to write a play instead? Very easy work, they tell me.
ROSEMARY (nodding). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a play. Thank you, James.
JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.
(ROSEMARY bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the inspiration comes.)
ROSEMARY (as she writes). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen B-e-l—— (she stops and frowns) Now which way is it? (She tries it on the blotting-paper) That looks wrong. (She tries it again) So does that. Oh, dear! (She rings the bell … JAMES returns.)
JAMES. Yes, Miss?
ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play Make-Believe.
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY (carelessly). When you spell "believe," it is "i-e," isn't it?
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i."
JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss.
ROSEMARY (reproachfully). Oh, James! Aren't you certain?
JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l—— (He stops and scratches his whiskers.)
ROSEMARY. Yes. I got as far as that.
JAMES. B-e-l——
ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an accident to the very first word of it.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l——I've noticed sometimes that if one writes a word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then looks at it with the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct comes over one, as makes one say (with a shake of the head) "Rotten." One can then write it the other way more hopeful.
ROSEMARY. I've tried that.
JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy words to spell, or "Red Revenge," or——
ROSEMARY. I must call it Make-Believe, because it's all of the play I've thought of so far.
JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes.
ROSEMARY. Does it?
JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh.
ROSEMARY. Oh! … Well, which is the wrong way?
JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss.
ROSEMARY (inspired). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it "i-e"; and if it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then I'm funny.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest.
ROSEMARY. Thank you, James.
JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.
ROSEMARY (writing). Make-Believe. A Christmas Entertainment—— (She stops and thinks, and then shakes her head.) No, play—a Christmas Play in three acts. Er—— (She is stuck.)
Enter JAMES.
JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are without, and crave admittance.
ROSEMARY. All nine of them?
JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the majority of them were present.
ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home?
JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and you being a visitor, if you had been at home, then you wouldn't have been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram, Miss.
ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting when you're writing a play.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more the merrier, as you might say.
ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. (He opens the door and says very rapidly) The Misses Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and Isabel Hubbard, The Masters Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold Hubbard. (They come in.)
ROSEMARY. How do you do?
ADA. Rosemary, darling, what are you doing?
BERTRAM. It's like your cheek, bagging our room.
CAROLINE (primly). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be polite to our visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if Rosemary wants our room——
DENNIS. Oh, chuck it!
ADA (at ROSEMARY'S shoulder). Oh, I say, she's writing a play!
(Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at ROSEMARY.)
{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What's it about? Bet it's awful rot. }
{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am I in it? Do tell us about it. Is it for Christmas? }
ROSEMARY (in alarm). James, could you——?
JAMES (firmly). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis, down! Miss Gwendoline, if you wouldn't mind—— (He picks her up and places her on the floor.) Thank you. (Order is restored.)
ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. … Yes, it's a play for Christmas, and it is called
