Scene—The Library of a Country-House; the tables and chairs are heaped with brocades, draperies, and properties of all kinds, which the Ladies of the company are trying on, while the men rack their brains for a suitable Word. In a secluded corner, Mr. Nightingale and Miss Rose are conversing in whispers.

Mr. Whipster (Stage-Manager and Organizer—self-appointed). No—but I say, really, you know, we must try and decide on something—we've been out half-an-hour, and the people will be getting impatient! (To the Ladies.) Do come and help; it's really no use dressing up till we've settled what we're going to do. Can't anybody think of a good Word?

Miss Larkspur. We ought to make a continuous story of it, with the same plot and characters all through. We did that once at the Grange, and it was awfully good—just like a regular Comedy!

Mr. Whipster. Ah, but we've got to hit on a Word first. Come—nobody got an idea? Nightingale, you're not much use over there, you know. I hope you and Miss Rose have been putting your heads together?

Mr. Nightingale (confused). Eh? No, nothing of the sort! Oh, ah—yes, we've thought of a lot of Words.

Miss Rose. Only you've driven them all out of our heads again!

[They resume their conversation.

Mr. Wh. Well, do make a suggestion, somebody! Professor, won't you give us a Word?

Chorus of Ladies. Oh, do, Professor—you're sure to think of something clever!

Professor Pollen (modestly). Well, really, I've so little experience in these matters that—A Word has just occurred to me, however; I don't know, of course, whether it will meet with approval—(he beams at them with modest pride through his spectacles)—it's "Monocotyledonous."

Chorus of Ladies. Charming! Monocottle—Oh, can't we do that?

Mr. Wh. (dubiously). We might—but—er—what's it mean?

Prof. Pollen. It's a simple botanical term, signifying a plant which has only one cup-shaped leaf, or seed-lobe. Plants with two are termed—

Mr. Wh. I don't see how we're going to act a plant with only one seed-lobe myself—and then the syllables—"mon"—"oh"—"cot"—"till"—we shouldn't get done before midnight, you know!

Prof. Pollen (with mild pique). Well, I merely threw it out as a suggestion. I thought it could have been made amusing. No doubt I was wrong; no doubt.

Mr. Settee (nervously). I've thought of a word. How would—er—"Familiar" do?

Mr. Wh. (severely). Now, really, Settee, do try not to footle like this!

[Mr. Settee subsides amidst general disapproval.

Mr. Flinders (with a flash of genius). I've got it—Gamboge!

Mr. Wh. Gamboge, eh? Let's see how that would work:—"Gam"-"booge." How do you see it yourself?

[Mr. Flinders discovers on reflection, that he doesn't see it, and the suggestion is allowed to drop.

Miss Pelagia Rhys. I've an idea. Familiar! "Fame"-"ill"-"liar," you know.

[Chorus of applause.

Mr. Wh. Capital! The very thing—congratulate you, Miss Rhys!

Mr. Settee (sotto voce). But I say, look here, I suggested that, you know, and you said—!

Mr. Wh. (ditto). What on earth does it matter who suggests it, so long as it's right? Don't be an ass, Settee! (Aloud.) How are we going to do the first syllable "Fame," eh? [Mr. Settee sulks.

Mr. Pushington. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a Poet, and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot of him, asking him for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing the Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.

[He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of indicating the eccentricity of genius; the Ladies adorn themselves with a similar regard to realism, and even more care for appearances.

AFTER THE FIRST SYLLABLE.

The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed by faint applause.

Mr. Pushington. Went capitally, that syllable, eh? (No response.) You might have played up to me a little more than you did—you others. You let me do everything!

Miss Larkspur. You never let any of us get a word in!

Mr. Pushington. Because you all talked at once, that was all. Now then—"ill." I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to me one by one, and say you're ill—see?

[Attires himself for the rÔle of a Physician in a dressing-gown and an old yeomanry helmet.

Mr. Whipster (huffily). Seems to me I may as well go and sit with the audience—I'm no use here!

Mr. Pushington. Oh, yes, Whipster, I want you to be my confidential butler, and show the patients in.

[Mr. W. accepts—with a view to showing Pushington that other people can act as well as he.

AFTER THE SECOND SYLLABLE.

Mr. Pushington. Seemed to drag a little, somehow! There was no necessity for you to make all those long soliloquies, Whipster. A Doctor's confidential servant wouldn't chatter so much!

Mr. Whipster. You were so confoundedly solemn over it, I had to put some fun in somewhere!

Mr. P. Well, you might have put it where some one could see it. Nobody laughed.

Professor Pollen. I don't know, Mr. Pushington, why, when I was describing my symptoms—which I can vouch for as scientifically correct—you persisted in kicking my legs under the table—it was unprofessional, Sir, and extremely painful!

Mr. Pushington. I was only trying to hint to you that as there were a dozen other people to follow, it was time you cut the interview short, Professor—that one syllable alone has taken nearly an hour.

Miss Buckram. If I had known the kind of questions you were going to ask me, Mr. Pushington, I should certainly not have exposed myself to them. I say no more, but I must positively decline to appear with you again.

Mr. Pushington. Oh, but really, you know, in Charades one gets carried away at times. I assure you, I hadn't the remotest (&c., &c.—until Miss Buckram is partly mollified.) Now then—last syllable. Look here, I'll be a regular impostor, don't you know, and all of you come on and say what a liar I am. We ought to make that screamingly funny!

AFTER THE THIRD SYLLABLE.

Mr. Pushington. Muddled? Of course it was muddled—you all called me a liar before I opened my mouth!

The Rest. But you didn't seem to know how to begin, and we had to bring the Word in somehow.

Pushington. Bring it in?—but you needn't have let it out. There was Settee there, shouting "liar" till he was black in the face. We must have looked a set of idiots from the front. I sha'n't go in again (muttering). It's no use acting Charades with people who don't understand it. There; settle the Word yourselves!

AFTER THE WORD. AMONG THE AUDIENCE.

General Murmur. What can it be? Not Turk, I suppose, or Magician?—Quarrelling?—Parnellite—Impertinence? Shall we give it up? No, they like us to guess, poor things; and besides, if we don't they'll do another; and it is getting so late, and such a long drive home. Oh, they're all coming back; then it is over. No, indeed, we can't imagine. "Familiar!" To be sure—how clever, and how well you all acted it, to be sure—you must be quite tired after it all. I am sure we—hem—are deeply indebted to you.... My dear Miss Rose, how wonderfully you disguised yourself, I never recognized you a bit, nor you, Mr. Nightingale. What part did you take?

Mr. Nightingale. I—er—didn't take any particular part—wasn't wanted, you know.

Miss Rose. Not to act,—so we stayed outside and—and—arranged things.

An Old Lady. Indeed? Then you had all the hard work, and none of the pleasure, my dear, I'm afraid.

Miss Rose (sweetly). Oh no. I mean yes!—but we didn't mind it much.

The O. L. And which of you settled what the Word was to be?

Mr. N. Well, I believe we settled that together.

[Carriages are announced; departure of guests who are not of the house-party. In the Smoking-room, Mr. Pushington discovers that he does not seem exactly popular with the other men, and puts it down to jealousy.