Uncle Fletcher!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Ah! ha!
Justina.
What price Mrs. Allingham?
Mrs. Emptage returns. She has relieved the heaviness of her dress by a fichu of crêpe de soie.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Embracing Claude.] My darling! [Embracing Sir Fletcher.] Oh, my dear Fletcher! Be quiet, ’Tina!
[Justina plays the air of a popular music-hall melody, softly; Mrs. Twelves comes to her.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I told you so—hey!
Mrs. Emptage.
We all said so.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
But I’ve been the most emphatic——
Mrs. Emptage.
Where are Theo and Alec?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
They went over to Sir John Clarkson’s chambers directly the case concluded—I fancy, to consult him on some little point that had arisen. I managed to get one word——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Impulsively kissing Mrs. Twelves.] I’m so happy!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I contrived to get just one word with Alec as he was putting Theophila into the carriage. I wanted to tell him——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Pacing the room, humming the air played by Justina.] Tra, la, la! la, la! tra, la, la!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I wanted to tell him an amusing story I’d heard during the luncheon interval, but he hadn’t time to—— Ha, ha! It’s a legal anecdote. It appears that a fellow of the name of Babbitt once brought an action——
Mrs. Emptage.
Did the judge apologise, Fletcher?
[Justina stops playing.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Apologise!
Mrs. Emptage.
To Theophila?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
A judge never apologises.
Mrs. Emptage.
He might do worse, where such undeserved distress is occasioned a young wife and her husband——
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Hear, hear!
Mrs. Emptage.
To say nothing of her mother!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I surmise that the judgment of my friend Sir William was very strongly worded, and I daresay an expression of regret followed from Mrs. Allingham’s counsel. But I had quitted the Court, you know——
Mrs. Emptage.
Oh, yes; Theo wrote you a note——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
But you are losing my anecdote. It appears that a man of the name of Babbitt—— One thing, Muriel, I will stake my reputation upon.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Peeping out at the side of the window blind.] What’s that?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
That the public applauded the decision roundly.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Pacing the room again.] I can hear them doing it! Bravo, Mrs. Fraser! Eh, girls?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Plucky Mrs. Fraser!
Justina.
How jolly to have been there just then!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
As a matter of fact, I talked with several strangers of a humble rank of life, and hinted that a few cheers—so regrettable and unseemly in a court of law as a rule—I hinted that a few cheers would undoubtedly be justifiable in the present instance, as well as peculiarly agreeable to me. It seems that Babbitt——
[Horton enters with a card.
Mrs. Emptage.
[After glancing at the card.] Oh——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Eh?
Justina.
What’s up?
Mrs. Emptage.
[To Horton.] Where is Mrs. Cloys?
[Sir Fletcher, Justina and Claude rise precipitately.
Horton.
In the morning-room, ma’am. She preferred——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Taking the card.] I—I—some one will come to her.
[Horton retires.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Harriet here!
Justina.
By Jove!
Claude.
[Making for the door.] No; she is too impossible.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Intercepting him.] Claude, I dare you to leave the house!
[Sir Fletcher also moves towards the door.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Stopping him.] Fletcher, you mustn’t!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Muriel, I distinctly prefer not to meet——
Mrs.
