The 'Mind the Paint' Girl by Arthur Wing Pinero (books for men to read TXT) 📕

The following advertisements are to appear conspicuously in the programme.

MIND THE PAINT (the complete song), words by D’Arcy Wingate, music by Vincent Bland, as originally sung by Miss Lily Parradell at the Pandora Theatre in the Musical Play of “The Duchess of Brixton,” may be obtained from Messrs. Church and Co. (Ltd.), Music Publishers, 181 New Bond Street.

After the Theatre. Catani’s Restaurant, 459 Strand. Best cuisine in London. Milanese Band. Private Rooms. Urbano Catani, Sole Proprietor. Tel.: 10,337 Gerrard.

The scene is a drawing-room, prettily but somewhat showily decorated. The walls are papered with a design representing large clusters of white and purple lilac. The furniture is covered with a chintz of similar pattern, and the curtains, carpet, and lamp-shades correspond.

In the wall facing the spectator are two windows, and midway between the windows there is the entrance to a conservatory. The conservatory, which is seen beyond, is of the kind that is built out over the portico of a front-door, and is plentifully stocked with flowers and hung with a velarium and green sun-blinds. In the right-hand wall there is another window and, nearer the spectator, a console-table supporting a high mirror; and in the wall on the left, opposite the console-table, there is a double-door opening into the room, the further half of which only is used.

In the entrance to the conservatory, to the right, there is a low, oblong tea-table at which are placed three small chairs; and near-by, on the left, are a grand-piano and a music-stool. Against the piano there is a settee, and on the extreme left, below the door, there is an arm-chair with a little round table beside it. At the right-hand window in the wall at the back is another settee, and facing this window and settee there is a smaller arm-chair.

Not far from the fire-place there is a writing-table with a telephone-instrument upon it. A chair stands at the writing-table, its back to the window in the wall on the right; and in front of the table, opposing the settee by the piano, there is a third settee. On the left of this settee, almost in the middle of the room, is an arm-chair; and closer to the settee, on its right, are two more arm-chairs. Other articles of furniture—a cabinet, “occasional” chairs, etc., etc.—occupy spaces against the walls.

On the piano, on the console-table and cabinet, on the settee at the back, on the round table, and upon the floor, stand huge baskets of flowers, and other handsome floral devices in various forms, with cards attached to them; and lying higgledy-piggledy upon the writing-table are a heap of small packages, several little cases containing jewellery, and a litter of paper and string. The packages and the cases of jewellery are also accompanied by cards or letters.

A fierce sunlight streams down upon the velarium, and through the green blinds, in the conservatory.

[Note: Throughout, “right” and “left” are the spectators’ right and left, not the actor’s.]

Lord Farncombe, his gloves in his hand, is seated in the arm-chair in the middle of the room. He is a simple-mannered, immaculately dressed young man in his early twenties, his bearing and appearance suggesting the soldier. He rises expectantly as Gladys, a flashy parlourmaid in a uniform, shows in Lionel Roper, a middle-aged individual of the type of the second-class City man.

Roper.

To Farncombe. Hul-lo! I’m in luck! Just the chap I’m hunting for. Shaking hands with Farncombe. How d’ye do, Lord Farncombe?

Farncombe.

How are you, Roper?

Gladys.

To Roper, languidly. I’ll tell Mrs. Upjohn you’re here.

Roper.

Ta. Gladys withdraws. Phew, it’s hot!

Farncombe.

Miss Parradell’s out.

Roper.

Taking off his gloves. She won’t be long, I dare say.

Farncombe.

I’ve brought her a few flowers.

Roper.

Have you? I’ve sent her a trifle of jewellery.

Farncombe.

Glancing at the writing-table. She seems to have received a lot of jewellery.

Roper.

Bustling across to the table. By Jove, doesn’t she! Ah, there’s my brooch!

Farncombe.

Modestly. I didn’t consider I’d a right to offer her anything but flowers, on so slight an acquaintance.

Roper.

Exactly; but I’m an old friend, you know. Turning to Farncombe. Perhaps, by her next birthday——

Farncombe.

Smiling. I hope so.

Roper.

Approaching Farncombe and taking him by the lapel of his coat. What I want to say to you is, doing anything to-night?

Farncombe.

I—I shall be at the theatre.

Roper.

Oh, we shall all be at the theatre, to shout Many Happy Returns. Later, I mean.

Farncombe.

Nothing that I can’t get out of.

Roper.

Good. Look here. Smythe is giving her a bit of supper in the foyer after the show, a dance on the stage to follow. About five-and-twenty people. ’Ull you come?

Farncombe.

If Mr. Smythe is kind enough to ask me——

Roper.

He does ask you, through me. He’s left all the arrangements to me and Morrie Cooling. Carlton never did anything in his life; I egged him on to this. I’ve been sweating at it since eleven o’clock this morning. Haven’t been near the City; not near it. Well?

Farncombe.

His eyes glowing. I shall be delighted.

Roper.

Splendid. Been trying to get on to you all day. I’ve called twice at your club and at St. James’s Place.

Farncombe.

Sorry you’ve had so much trouble.

Roper.

Dropping on to the settee in front of the writing-table and wiping his brow. There’ll be the Baron, Sam de Castro, Bertie Fulkerson, Stew Heneage, Jerry Grimwood, Dwarf Kennedy, Colonel and Mrs. Stidulph—Dolly Ensor that was—and ourselves, besides Cooling and Vincent Bland and the pick o’ the Company. Catani does the food and drink. I don’t believe I’ve forgotten a single thing. With a change of tone, pointing to the arm-chair in the middle of the room. Sit down a minute. Farncombe sits and Roper edges nearer to him. Are you going to wait to see Lily this afternoon?

Farncombe.

I—I should like to.

Roper.

Because if Jeyes should happen to drop in while you’re here——

Farncombe.

Captain Jeyes?

Roper.

Nicko Jeyes—or if you knock up against him to-night at the theatre—mum about this.

Farncombe.

About the supper?

Roper.

Nodding. Um. We don’t want Nicko Jeyes; we simply don’t want him. And if he heard that you and some of the boys are coming, he might wonder why he isn’t included.

Farncombe.

He strikes me as being rather a surly, ill-conditioned person.

Roper.

A regular loafer.

Farncombe.

He appears to live at Catani’s. I never go there without meeting him.

Roper.

Exactly. Catani’s and a top, back bedroom in Jermyn Street, and hanging about the Pandora; that’s Nicko Jeyes’s life.

Farncombe.

He’s an old friend of Mrs. Upjohn’s and Miss Parradell’s too, isn’t he?

Roper.

Evasively. Known ’em some time. That’s it; Lily’s so faithful to her old friends.

Farncombe.

Smiling. You oughtn’t to complain of that.

Roper.

Oh, but I’m a real friend. I’ve always been a patron of the musical drama—it’s my fad; and I’ve kept an eye on Lily from the moment she sprang into prominence— singing “Mind the paint! Mind the paint!” —looked after her like a father. Uncle Lal she calls me. Reassuringly. I’m a married man, you know; Farncombe nods but the wife has plenty to occupy her with the kids and she leaves the drama to me. She prefers Bexhill. Leaning forward and speaking with great earnestness. Farncombe, what a charming creature!

Farncombe.

Innocently. Mrs. Roper?

Roper.

No, no, no; Lily. Hastily. Oh, and so’s my missus, for that matter, when she chooses. But Lily Upjohn——!

Farncombe.

In a low voice. Beautiful; perfectly beautiful.

Roper.

Yes, and as good as she’s beautiful; you take it from me. With a wave of the hand. Well, if you