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

go?

Jeyes.

Forlornly. Rhodesia! Bulawayo! Looking up at her again with a dismal smile. Come with me?

Lily.

Don’t be absurd.

Jeyes.

Rising and putting his hands upon her shoulders. No, you wouldn’t care a straw—not a brass farthing—if I did go, would yer!

Lily.

Softening again. Stuff! I should miss you horribly. Toying with a button of his waistcoat. Who’d bring me home from the theatre at night then, and from rehearsals; who——?

Jeyes.

Ah, who! His grip tightening on her. Who!

Lily.

Wincing. Ssss! You’ll bruise my skin if you’re not careful.

Jeyes.

Taking her hand and crumpling it in his. Well, it might be that you’d miss me for a while—the old dog that you’re accustomed to find lying on your door-mat; pressing her hand to his lips but you don’t love me, Lil—not even as much as you did a year ago. You don’t love me!

Lily.

With a faint shrug of her shoulders. Perhaps I don’t, in the way you mean; wistfully perhaps it’s not in me really to love anybody in a marrying way. Meeting his eyes. Still, as you say——

Jeyes.

As I say——?

Lily.

Pursing her mouth at him winningly. I’m accustomed to you, Nicko. He draws her to him; but, with a laugh, she checks him by offering him her head to kiss. There— putting the point of her finger playfully on the crown of her head you may there. As he kisses her. Now I must run upstairs, or mother’ll whack me.

Jeyes.

Detaining her. Won’t you allow me to fetch you after the dance?

Lily.

Three or four in the morning! No; I’ll give you a rest. Uncle Lal or Sam’ll take on your job. Going to the door. And don’t try to see me to-morrow.

Jeyes.

Sharply. Why not?

Lily.

Not till you turn up at night as usual. I shall be a shocking rag all day.

Jeyes.

Breaking out. Yes, I expect you’ll manage to enjoy yourself thoroughly, and dance yourself off your feet, whoever your partners may be!

Lily.

Wilfully. Expect I shall. Tossing her head up. Ha, ha! I’ll do my best.

She departs, leaving him standing near the tea-table. He takes out his handkerchief and mops his brow. As he does so, his eyes rest upon the telephone-instrument on the writing-table and he stares at it. He hesitates, as if struggling to resist an impulse; then he goes quickly to the instrument and puts the receiver to his ear.

Jeyes.

After a pause. Gerrard, three, eight, four, eight. Discovering that Lily has left the door wide open, he lays the receiver upon the writing-table and goes to the door and shuts it. Then he returns to the writing-table and again listens at the receiver. Is that the office of the Pandora Theatre?... Suddenly, imitating the voice of de Castro. Ith Mithter Morrith Cooling in?... I’m Mithter de Castro ... Tham de Castro ... Gone, ith he?... Oh, ith that you, Mithter Hickthon?... Yeth, you’ll do ... About the thupper-party to-night that Mithter Smythe ith giving to Mith Parradell ... Yer there?... I didn’t quite underthtand whether ith to be at the theatre or at a rethtaurong ... At the theatre?... Oh, yeth ... A largth party?... Oh, that ith nithe!... Who are the guesth, d’ye know?... Yeth?... Yeth?... Oh, an’ the boyth!... oh, thome o’ the boyth are comin’, are they!... Hey?... Haven’t got the litht from Mithter Roper yet?... Oh, he’th been helpin’ to get it up!... Oh, we shall have a thplendid time!... The boyth!... Yeth!... Yeth!... ha, ha, ha, ha!... thankth.... goo’bye!

He replaces the receiver and stands looking at the door for a moment. Then, with his head bent and his hands clasped behind him, he goes slowly out.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

THE SECOND ACT

The scene is an artistically decorated refreshment-saloon—or “foyer”—on the first-circle floor of a theatre. The wall facing the spectator is panelled partly in glass, and through the glazed panels the corridor behind the circle, and the doors admitting to the circle, are seen. The right-hand wall is panelled in a similar way, showing the landing at the top of the principal staircase and an entrance to the corridor. Some music-stands and stools are on the landing, arranged for a small orchestra.

In the right-hand wall there is a double swing-door giving on to the landing; and in the wall at the back, opening on to, and from, the corridor, there is a single swing-door on the left and another on the right. The left-hand door is fastened back into the saloon by a hook. Between the two doors in the back wall runs the refreshment-counter.

In one of the further corners of the saloon there is a plaster statue representing the Muse of Comedy, in the opposite corner a companion figure of Dancing. In the wall on the left, the grate hidden by flowers, is a fireplace with a fender-stool before it, and on either side of the fireplace there is a capacious and richly upholstered arm-chair. A settee of like design stands against the wall on the right between the double-door and the spectator.

The counter is decked-out as a sideboard, and at equal distances from each other there are four round tables laid for a supper-party of twenty-six persons. There are eight chairs at one table and six at each of the others, the chairs being of the sort usually supplied by ball-caterers.

The saloon and the landing without are brilliantly lighted, the corridor less brightly.

Luigi and four waiters—one of whom has a curly head and a fair beard ending in two flamboyant points—are putting the finishing touches to the laying of the tables, while Morris Cooling, a person of imposing presence displaying a vast expanse of shirt-front, is engaged in placing upon each of the serviettes a card bearing the name of a guest.

Cooling.

Referring to a plan of the tables which he has in his hand. Miss Connify—Miss Connify—Miss Connify—where’s Miss Connify? Ah, here you are, my dear— moving to Miss Connify’s chair and putting a card upon her serviette next to old Arthur.

The four waiters, obeying a direction in dumb-show from Luigi, go out at the door on the left.

Luigi.

A little, dark, active man—viewing the tables with satisfaction. Tables look nice, Mr. Cooling?

Cooling.

Absorbed. Not bad—not bad—not bad. Luigi follows the waiters. Miss Kato? Moving to another table and laying a card upon a serviette. Gabrielle.

Roper bustles in through the double-door, in high feather.

Roper.

Hul-lo! Cutting a caper. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and how are you to-morrow!

Cooling.

Deep in his plan of the tables. Hullo, Lal!

Roper.

Surveying the tables. Splendid! Going from one table to another. Seating ’em, hey?

Cooling.

Mr. Palk—Mr. Palk—Mr. Palk? Placing another card. Albert.

Roper.

Which d’ye make your principal table?

Cooling.

There it is; you’re at it.

Roper.

Ah, yes. Examining the cards. “Miss Lily Parradell—”! His jaw falling. Why, you’ve gone and put the Baron on her right!

Cooling.

Unconsciously. Well, what’s the objection?

Roper.

Where’s Farncombe? Where’s Lord Farncombe?

Cooling.

On the other side, with Dolly Stidulph and Enid.

Roper.

Rats!

Cooling.

What do you mean by Rats? Advancing to the principal table—nettled. Look heah, Lal——!

Roper.

My dear fellow, Miss Parradell is the heroine o’ the party; the seat next to her is the seat of honour.

Cooling.

That’s why I’ve put the Baron there. With things as they are between England and Germany——

Roper.

If Germany doesn’t like it, she must lump it. Lord Farncombe’s the eldest son of an Earl; you can’t get over that.

Cooling.

Picking up Farncombe’s card. Oh, have it your own way.

Roper.

Picking up Von Rettenmayer’s card. Besides, the Baron’s sweet on Enid just now; I’m sure he’d prefer— They exchange the cards and rearrange them. thanks, ol’ man. Sorry I was shirty.

Cooling.

Laying down his plan and cards and producing a letter from his breast-pocket. By-the-bye, the fair Lily—the heroine of the party, as you call her—is in a pretty tantrum over the whole business.

Roper.

Tantrum?

Cooling.

Unfolding the letter. Had this from her ten minutes ago. Listen to this. Reading. “My Dressing-room. 11-15. 80 degrees, with the windows open.” In an injured tone. Haw, so I should think!

Roper.

Concerned. What’s amiss?

Cooling.

Reading. “Morrie, you pig.” Roper whistles. “Morrie, you pig. I should feel deeply indebted to you if you would kindly inform me why the devil you went out of your way to deceive me last night. You led me to suppose—and so did that lying worm Lal Roper——” looking at Roper You.

Roper.

Oh, lord!

Cooling.

Resuming. “—that lying worm Lal Roper——”

Roper.

Testily. All right, all right.

Cooling.

“—you both led me to suppose that this rotten banquet was to be a family gathering of the ladies and gentlemen of the Pandora Theatre, and no outsiders asked. Now I find that only three or four of the men of the Company are invited, and I hear from Nita Trevenna, who has got it from young Kennedy, that several of the Boys are to be laid on for the occasion. The result is you have made me tell a regular whopper to a particular friend of mine with regard to this affair——”

Roper.

Passing his hand over his brow. Nicko Jeyes.

Cooling.

“—which I will never forgive you for, Morris Cooling—neither you nor Lal Roper. As true as I am alive, I have a jolly good mind not to show, but to put on my old rags and go straight home. You are two cads. So take it out of that and believe me, Always yours affectionately, Lil.”

Roper.

Walking about. Well, I’m blessed!

Cooling.

Returning the letter to his pocket. Haw! Tasty document!

Roper.

Lying worm and a cad! And from Miss Lily Margaret Upjohn! To Cooling. Done anything about it?

Cooling.

No; waited for you. Going on with his arrangements at the tables. You’re responsible. What I did last night was simply to oblige a pal.

Roper.

Irresolutely. I’d better run round to her, and try to smooth her down, hadn’t I?

Cooling.

Perhaps you had. Placing a card. Mr. Stewart Heneage. To Roper. Why you wanted to mislead the girl I can’t understand.

Roper.

Damn it, you agreed that that sulky brute Jeyes ’ud be a wet blanket! You blow hot and cold, you do!

Cooling.

There you go! More filthy temper!

Roper.

If ever I assist in getting up another party——! As he reaches the door on the left, he encounters Carlton Smythe, who is entering at that moment, and puts on his humourous manner. Hul-lo! Here we are again! All change for Oxford Circus!

Smythe.

A bulky, sleepy-looking man with grey hair, a darker moustache and beard, and a heavy, rolling gait. Ha, Lal!

Roper.

I’m just going to have a word with Lil Parradell.

He disappears and Smythe advances.

Cooling.

Approaching Smythe. How are you to-night, Chief?

Smythe.

A silk hat on the back of his head, an overcoat on his arm—regarding the preparations with disgust. Puh! Here’s a muck and a muddle!

Cooling.

Don’t worry; we’ll clear it away in no time. Shall I tell you who are coming?

Smythe.

No; I shall know soon enough. What was the house to-night?

Cooling.

Producing a long slip of paper and handing it to Smythe. Big. Smythe scans the paper through half-closed lids and gives a growl of contentment. Haw! And the weather dead against us.

Smythe.

Screwing up the paper, and cramming it into his waistcoat-pocket. There’s no bad weather for