For some days Milburd, Mrs. Orby Frimmely, Cazell, Chilvern, and the Medfords have been working hard at a new piece.

The order of the evening is dinner for a few, then theatricals to amuse the many, then refreshments, then a dance, and finally supper.

The Signor is in great force.

“My dear,” he says to his wife, “I shall do my lit-tel step. I shall valse.”

“Mr. Regniati,” returns Madame, severely, “you will do nothing of the sort.”

This rather damps his ardour; and the fact of being unable to consult his nephew on the best means of obtaining his chance of doing his “lit-tel steps,” still further depresses him.

He is perpetually looking into the theatre-room, and as often begging pardon, and being turned out.

The night arrives. I receive the guests as president, and I take the lady I don't want to in to dinner. Dinner successful.

Madame rises at the proper moment; and after an hour, and the arrival of several carriages full, the gong summons us to the theatre.

Here Medford and myself hand round the programmes, and Miss Medford performs on the piano.

The programmes are in her writing too. Most neatly done.

This evening will be represented, for the first time on any stage, an entirely new and original Musical Farce, entitled

PENELOPE ANNE.

WRITTEN BY R. MILBURD, ESQ.

Dramatis PersonÆ.

Don JosÉ John Boxos de Caballeros y Carvalhos y Regalias di Salamanca, generally known, and without familiarity mentioned, as “John Box”			S. Cazell.
Count Cornelius de Coxo, Land-Margrave of Somewhere, with a Palazzo in Venice, commonly known as “James Cox”			R. Milburd.
Karl, the German Waiter			T. Chilvern.
Mrs. Penelope Anne Knox			Mrs. Orby Frimmely.
Major-General Bouncer, B.L.H.			Captain Byrton.

---

The Scene is laid in Aix-la-Chapelle, at the Hotel known as Die Schweine und die Pfeiffer. Time.—There being no time like The Present, we choose the present time.

The Orchestra under the superintendence of Miss Catherine Medford.

Stage Manager, R. Milburd.
Prompter, George A. Medford.

PENELOPE ANNE.

The Curtain being drawn up:—

The scene represents a public room in the small Hotel above-mentioned, at Aix-la-Chapelle.

Doors R.H. and L.H. Also a door C. leading on to a garden.

Time, late in Autumn.

On the table are various papers, books, &c.

Enter Cox.

Everybody applauds him. The Signor says, aloud, “Oh 'ow good! eet is Deeck,” and looks about, proud of his penetration of his nephew's disguise, when Madame observes, “Mr. Regniati, if you can't be quiet, you'd better go out,” whereupon the Signor confines himself to smiling and nodding to different people among the audience, intimating thereby his intense satisfaction with everything that is taking place on the stage.

Cox is in full tourist style of the most recent fashion. Over this he wears a top-coat and round his throat a cache-nez. In one hand he holds a large glass of water.

He walks up and down on entering. Drinks a little. Takes off his coat, which he throws on the sofa. Then drinks again. Then walks. Then removes the cache-nez, which he throws on to coat, then he stands still and respires freely.

COX.

Phew! I'm only gradually cooling. This is the sixth day I've taken the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle ... and I'm beginning to be so sulphurous all over, that, if anybody was to rub against me suddenly, I should ignite and go off with a bang. I've written to my friend Box an account of it. I haven't seen Box for some years; but as I particularly wish him to remain in England just now, I've commenced a correspondence with him. I've told him that the doctor's orders here are very simple .... “Herr Cox,” says he to me—Herr's German—I must explain that to Box, because, though Box is a good fellow, yet—he's—in fact—he's an ass. “Herr Cox,” says he, “you must drink a glass of sulphur wasser.” Wasser's German too; it didn't take long for my naturally fine intellect to discover that it meant water. But Box doesn't know it ... for though he's an excellent fellow, he is—in fact he's an ignoramus. “Herr Cox,” says he to me, “you must take the sulphur wasser, and then walk about.” “What next, Herr Doctor?” says I. Note to Box. Herr Doctor doesn't mean that he's anything to do with a Hair-cutter. No, it's the respectful German for Mister—must explain that to Box, for though he's a tiptop chap, yet Box is—is—in fact, Box is a confounded idiot. “Herr Doctor,” says I, “what next?” “Well,” says he “when you've taken the sulphur water and walked about, then you must walk about and take the sulphur water.” Simple. The first glass ... ugh! I shan't forget it. I never could have imagined, till that moment, what the taste of a summer beverage made of curious old eggs ... a trifle over ripe ... beaten up with a lucifer match, would be like ... now I know. But I was not to be conquered. Glass number two was not so bad. Glass number three .... less unpalatable than glass number two—glass number four ... um, between number three and number four a considerable time was allowed to elapse, as I found I had been going it too fast. But now my enfeebled health is gradually being renovated, and they tell me that when I leave this, I shall be “quite another man.” I don't know what other man I shall be. Yes I do. I am now a single man. I hope to leave here a double, I mean a married man. Cox, my boy, that's what you've come here for. Cox, my boy, that's why you want to keep, diplomatically, Box, my boy, in England, and in ignorance of your proceedings. Herr Cox, you're a sly dog. If I could give myself a dig in the ribs without any internal injury, I'd do it. I came here for the rheumatism. By the way I needn't have come here for that, as I'd got it pretty strongly. I caught it, without any sort of trouble. I bathed, at Margate, in the rain. Before I could reach my bathing machine, I was drenched through and through, I don't know where to, but long beyond the skin. The injury was more than skin deep. No amount of exterior scrubbings could cure me. Brandies and waters hot internally, every day for two months, produced more than the desired effect. I began to wander. I finished by travelling. And here I am. In six more lessons on the sulphur spring, I shall be quite the Cure. (Dances and sings.) “The Cure, the Cure, the Cure, &c.”

(Great applause: from the Signor especially.)

Enter Waiter.

(More applause. An elderly lady with eye-glasses asks audibly if that isn't Captain Byrton?)

WAITER (putting newspaper on table).

Aachen Zeitung, Herr Cox.

(More applause for his German accent.)

COX.

Nein danky. I mean, no thank you. Nix—nein—don't want any.

WAITER.

Nein, Herr Cox, zis ees de baber—de daily baber at Aix. Beebels come.

[Exit.

(The Signor here observes aloud, “Eet is so like ven I——” Madame says, sternly, “Hush, Mr. Regniati,” and he contents himself by finishing with a wink privately to me.)

COX.

Ja. Goot. I flatter myself I'm getting on with my German. Here's the arrival column .. English .. I look at this every day ... because ... um (reading it) ... “Mr. and Mrs. Bloater, from Yarmouth, and all the little Bloaters ... Major Bouncer” ... goodness gracious! how extraordinary!... Major Bouncer ... Oh it can't be the same, it must be one of his ancestors ... or his posterity ... “Major Bouncer of the Royal Banbury Light Horse” ... pooh! fancy Bouncer on a light horse!

Stop a minute ... Rings ... Ah! (reads) “accompanied by Mrs. Bouncer, also of the Banbury Light Horse.” Of course, that settles it. It is not old Bouncer. Next, “Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, from Pinner.” Ah! at last ... “Arrived at the Hotel, der Schwein und die Pfeife,” that's here—“Mrs. Penelope Anne Knox.” I only heard it the other day at Margate. There she sat. Radiant as ever. A widow for the second time. Originally widow of William Wiggins, of Margate and Ramsgate, and now widow of Nathaniel Knox, of the Docks, with a heap—a perfect heap—of money. Then my old passion returned. I determined to propose to her. I was about to do so, when on the very morning that I was going to throw myself at her feet, I caught this infernal rheumatism, which laid me on my back. When I recovered she was gone. “Where to?” says I. “Aix!” says they. My spirits mounted. I took a vast amount of pains to get to Aix, and here I am. I had heard of some property in Venice, which belonged to the Coxes some hundreds of years ago, and so I thought I'd join pleasure with business, and take Aix and Penelope Anne on the road. And now here she is. If Box had only known it, he'd have been after her. He's a first-rate fellow, is Box, but abominably mercenary and mean. He'd think nothing of proposing to Penelope Anne merely for her money. And I think nothing of a man who could do such a thing. So I've written to Box telling him to go to the North, and I'll come and stay with him for the shooting season. A little shooting Box in Scotland. Ha! ha! when I do go, it will be with Penelope Anne on my arm, as Mr. and Mrs. Cox. Let me see, when the hour strikes again, it will be time for my third tumbler—here it is—and the promenade. The Doctor says I must be punctual in drinking the water, so I'll put myself straight, and then, so to speak, lay myself out for the capture of Penelope Anne.

VERSES.

(“Les Pompiers de Nanterre.”)

[Exit out of room R.H.

(Immense applause. The Signor insisting upon joining in the chorus, which he thinks he knows. Milburd sings it again and then makes his exit.)

Enter Waiter with portmanteau.

Applause. Then enter Box as if from a long journey; he is wrapped up to the eyes, and above them. Questioning among audience, “Who's that?” Waiter points to room L.H. Box inclines his head. Exit Waiter. Box commences unbuttoning long foreign overcoat with hood. Then takes off hood, then takes off immense wrapper. When free of these he appears dressed in very foreign fashion.

Re-enter Waiter.

WAITER (puzzled).

'Ave you zeen a Herr mit ein long code, ... long tail?

BOX.

A what? A hare with a long tail?

WAITER.

Ah! ah! (laughing). You are him I zee (pointing to coat). Dat vas you dere. Zo ist goot.

BOX.

Oh, I see. Yes, that's me, I mean that was me, only now I've come out like the butterfly out of a grub. (Aside.) I forgot that this is Germany. (Aloud.) Ja.

WAITER.

Ach! der Herr sprech Deutsch?

(Great applause.)

BOX.

Yah. (Aside.) That's more like a nigger. (Aloud.) On second thoughts, nein.

WAITER.

Vill you your name in dese book write? (Presenting visitors' book.)

BOX.

I will. (Writes.) Don JosÉ John de Boxos Cazadores Regalias, Spain.

WAITER.

Dank you, milor!

[Exit Waiter C.

BOX.

We know what we are, but we never know what we shall be. I am not quite clear at present, by the way, what I am, let alone what I shall be. If anybody three months ago had said to me, “Box, my boy, you are a grandee of Spain” ... I should have said that he was a ... in point of fact I shouldn't have believed him. But still I am—that is, partially so—I'm gradually becoming one. At present I'm only half a grandee. Three months ago a friend, my legal adviser, a law stationer's senior clerk, near Chancery Lane, said to me, “Box, my boy, you've got Spanish blood in you.” I said that I had suspected as much from my peculiar and extreme partiality for the vegetable called a Spanish onion, and I was going to a doctor, when my friend and legal adviser said to me, “Box, my boy, I don't mean that. I mean that your great grandmother was of Spanish extraction.” I replied that I had heard that they had extracted my great grandmother from that quarter, “I came across some papers,” continued my legal adviser, “which allude to her as Donna Isidora y Caballeros, Carvalhos y Cazadores y Regalias, Salamanca, Spain, who married John Box, trader, of Eliza Lane, St. Margaret's Wharf, Wapping. Date and all correct. Go,” says he—I mean my legal adviser—“go to Spain, and claim your title, your estates, and your money, and I'll stand in with you, and take half the profits.” I was struck by this remarkably handsome offer, and went down to Margate to cultivate a Spanish moustache and think about it. Whenever I want to think about anything deeply, I go down to Margate. Well, one morning as I was examining the progress of my moustache, after shaving my chin and letting out some of the blue blood of the Hidalgos in a most tremendous gash, judge of my astonishment, when, walking on the beach, in among the donkeys and the Ethiopian serenaders, I saw in widow's weeds, as majestic as ever, Penelope Anne! (Sings) “I saw her for a moment, but methinks I see her now, with the wreath of—something or other—upon her—something brow”——and then I lost sight of her. But my Spanish blood was up. The extraction from the sunny South boiled in my veins ... boiled over, when I learnt, on referring to the visitors' list, that Penelope Anne was the relict of the short-breath'd—I mean short-lived but virtuous—Knox, who had left her his entire fortune. All my long-stifled passion returned—the passion which the existence of a Wiggins, her first, had not quenched, which the ephemeral life of a Knox had not extinguished, a passion which I have felt for her before I knew that the blue ink—I mean the blue blood, of the Hidalgos danced in my veins, and while she was only a sweet village maiden eighteen years old, and known to all as Miss Penelope Anne, of Park Place, Pimlico! I determined to go out and throw myself at her feet, declare my passion, and take nothing for an answer except “Box ... John ... I'm yours truly, Penelope!” I couldn't present myself before her with a scrubbing-brush on my upper lip. So that afternoon I sacrificed Mars to Venus—I mean I shaved off my moustache for the sake of Penelope Anne. The next morning .... Toothache wasn't the name for what I suffered. Face-ache fails to describe my agonies. Neuralgia doesn't give the faintest idea of my tortures. The left side of my face looked exactly as if I was holding a large dumpling in my mouth, or a gigantic ribston-pippin which I couldn't swallow. Swallow! Not a bit of food passed these lips, except slops, beef-tea, and tea without the beef, for days. At the end of a week I was a shadow. Penelope Anne had gone. Where, no one knew. Somebody said they thought it was the Continent. I bought a map and looked out the Continent, but it wasn't in that. I suppose it was an old edition—there have been so many changes, and they're building everywhere—so I consulted my medical man and my legal adviser. The first said, “Get change of air. Go abroad!” The second said, “Seize the opportunity and go to Spain. And,” he added, “come home by the Continent.” That suited me down to the ground. I should get my title, my lands, and my money, meeting Penelope Anne on the Continent. As I was coming back I should be able to offer her the hand and heart of either Don JosÉ John de Boxos y Cazadores y Regalias y Caballeros y Carvalhos of Salamanca, Spain, or of plain John Box, of Barnsbury. So here I am. I haven't got the whole title yet, as the Spanish legal gentleman and I didn't hit it off exactly.... If I'd only known what he was talking about, it would have shortened the proceedings. However, as that remark applies to all legal business, I couldn't quarrel with a foreigner on that point. Besides, if you quarrel with a Spaniard, his southern blood can't stand it. He stabs you. He's sorry for it afterwards, but that's his noble nature. So I've adopted half the title, and the rest will be sent on to me if the suit is gained. But up to this moment I've not met Penelope Anne. I've had so much of the wines of Spain, that my medical man wrote and advised me to try the waters of Germany. So here I am. (Takes up paper). What's this? Comic Journal, um. “We are sorry to announce the death of...” um, um. (reads) “Spain on the eve of a crisis.” ... There were three while I was there. Nobody took any notice of them. What's this? “Hotel der Schwein and die Pfeife”—that's here—“Mrs. Penelope Anne Knox.” .... Don JosÉ de Boxos, she's yours. You've only got to propose, and she's yours. Tell her you're a Spanish grandee, and offer her a position as Spanish grandshe. Don Boxos, you've only got to give yourself a brush up, and she's yours. (Taking up Cox's glass of water which he has left on table) I wish myself every possible success! To my future happiness! (drinks.) Ugh! (suddenly makes fearfully wry faces. The clock strikes. Re-enter Cox, R.H.)

COX.

Punctual to the moment. (Seeing glass empty) Confound it, dash it—who's taken my sulphur wasser? I say who (sees Box who is slowly recovering)—Have you—(starts) Can I believe my eyes?

BOX.

I don't know.

COX.

It must be—.

BOX.

If it must be, then in that case (opens his eyes and recognises Cox). Ah!

COX.

Box!

BOX.

Cox!

[They are about to rush into each other's arms, when they think better of it, and shake hands rather coolly.

BOX.

How d'ye do?

COX.

How are you?

BOX.

Very well, sir.

COX.

Very well, sir! (Aside) I don't like the look of this.

BOX (aside).

I don't like the taste of that.

COX (aside).

What's Box here for?

BOX (aside).

Has Cox been trying to poison himself—and poisoned me?

COX (aside).

He mustn't stay here.

BOX (aside).

Cox must go. I don't think I feel as well as I did.

COX.

Ahem!

BOX.

Ahem!

COX.

I beg your pardon, you were going to say—

BOX.

On the contrary, I interrupted you—

COX.

No, you speak first. Seniores priores.

BOX.

In that case you have the preference. Why, I'm quite a chicken by the side of you.

COX.

Pooh, sir.

BOX.

Well, if you don't like “chicken” I'll say gosling.

COX.

Don't be absurd, sir. At what age were you born?

BOX.

What's that to you? I'm six years younger than you, whatever you are.

COX.

So am I. So you speak first.

BOX.

This is absurd. I'm only a visitor. You're a resident.

COX.

No I'm not. I'm only ong parsong.

BOX.

Ong Parsong? Why, you don't mean to say you've become a clergyman? Archbishop Cox, I congratulate you.

(Our two curates, who are among the audience, see the joke and laugh sweetly.)

COX.

Don't be a fool. Are you stopping here?

BOX.

Well, that depends. Are you?

COX.

Well—(shrugging his shoulders and stretching out his hands).

BOX.

Ah! (imitates action) That's exactly my case.

COX.

It's time for me to go out and take the waters. You've taken mine for me.

BOX.

If you don't feel any better after it than I do—What's the effect of the waters?

COX (aside).

I'll frighten him. (Aloud) If you're unaccustomed to them—poisonous.

BOX.

Good gracious! The first draught then is—

COX.

Fatal. Deadly.

BOX.

Then you don't have much chance of getting accustomed to it. You look very well.

COX.

Yes. I could have taken that glass with impunity. It was my eighteenth tumbler.

BOX.

Then I'm safe. I began with the eighteenth. Aha! I shall smoke a cigar and read the paper.

COX (aside).

The paper!

BOX.

Don't stop for me. (Aside) I wonder if he's seen the news.

COX (aside).

He mustn't know she's here. He's got it. (Seeing Box reading the paper.) Would you allow me to look at the paper?

BOX.

There's nothing in it.

COX (coming up to table and putting his hand suddenly down on it).

Sir!

BOX (taking no notice).

Come in.

COX.

No, sir, I shall not come in. I'm going to come out, sir, and come out pretty strongly too. (Suddenly pathetic) Box, my boy—

BOX (the same).

Cox, my boy. (Turns and allows the smoke of his pipe to come under Cox's nose just as Cox is attempting to take the paper.)

COX (sneezing).

Excuse my emotion (sneezes).

BOX.

It does honour to your head and heart—specially to your head. (Offers his pocket-handkerchief.)

COX.

Thank you. I can't forget that we were once brothers.

BOX.

We were.

COX.

We had no secrets from each other. At least you had none from me, had you?

BOX.

No, not unless you had any from me.

COX.

Then I will confide in you. I don't mind telling you—

BOX.

I have no objection to inform you—

COX.

That I am—

BOX.

So am I—

COX.

Here—

BOX.

Exactly my case—

COX.

To marry—

BOX.

Yes, to espouse—

COX.

Eh?

BOX.

It's the same thing.

COX.

Oh. To marry Penelope Anne.

BOX.

Penelope Anne! So am I!

COX.

You!

BOX.

I.

COX.

Then, Box, I'm sorry for you. You've no chance. Go.

BOX.

On the contrary, Cox, as there can't be the smallest possibility of your being accepted, it's for you to retire. Allez.

COX.

I shan't allez.

BOX.

No more shall I.

COX.

Mr. Box, since we last met, circumstances have changed. You no longer speak to a gentleman—

BOX.

You needn't explain that—

COX.

I say, to a gentleman connected with the Hatting interest. No, my family solicitor discovered that my great grandfather had been a Venetian Count, or a Margrave, or a Hargrave, or a something of that sort, and that therefore my proper title was Count Cox The Landgrave.

BOX.

The Landgrave—you might as well be a tombstone at once.

COX.

I am serious. I have come over to mix pleasure with business, and to offer to Penelope Anne the hand of The Landgrave, or of the Venetian Count. So yield to the aristocracy; and, Printer, withdraw.

BOX.

Excuse me, Cox, but since our parting I have discovered that in my veins flows the blue blood of the Hidalgos—

COX.

How many “goes”?

BOX.

Don't be profane—of the Hidalgos of Spain. I have already assumed half the title. The rest will be sent on to me in a few days, and I am here to offer to Penelope Anne the hand and coronet of Don JosÉ John de Boxos y Caballeros y Regalias de Salamanca. Fuego, as we say in Spain, Fuego.

COX.

Never, while I live, shall you marry Penelope Anne.

BOX.

Never, while I marry Penelope Anne, shall you live. I've Spanish blood in my veins. Pistols!

COX.

Swords!

BOX.

When?

COX.

Now. (Clock strikes). That's the second glass of water you have made me lose. You are ruining my health.

BOX.

Then let me shoot you at once. By the way, I haven't got a pistol.

COX.

Paltry evasion! There's a shooting gallery here where they let 'em out by the hour.

BOX.

How many hours shall we take 'em for?

COX.

Well—we've got to pay in advance.

BOX.

Well, you advance the money and I'll pay.

COX.

No. We'll borrow it from the waiter.

BOX.

Yes, and leave it to be paid by our executors out of the estate. Come.

BOTH.

DUETT.

(“Suoni la tromba.”)

BOX (aside).

COX (aside).

BOTH.

Ah!

[“Off to the tented,” &c. They repeat the duett and are about to exit, when they stop at the door and return.

BOX.

Hem! I say, sir.

COX.

Well, sir?

BOX.

I intend to exterminate you.

COX.

I mean to blow you to atoms.

BOX.

But if we don't exterminate each other it will be rather awkward.

COX.

Yes. I shouldn't like to be wounded. It hurts.

BOX.

Besides, if we both came off without our noses, or with only two eyes between us, we should neither be able to marry Penelope Anne.

COX.

True. I have it.

BOX.

So have I.

COX.

The Lady shall decide.

BOX.

Just exactly what I was going to propose.

[A female voice heard without, singing a jÖdel.

? This is Mrs. Frimmely. She sings a Tyrolienne by Offenbach, and in French. Every one delighted. Being encored, she appears at the door, curtseys, retires and sings again, “without.”]

COX.

'Tis she! What superb notes!

BOX.

It's a rich voice.

COX.

She's a rich widow.

BOTH.

She comes.

[Penelope Anne appears C. in ultra Parisian watering-place toilette. They bring her down between them, each taking a hand.

BOTH.

Penelope Anne!

[Both kneel R. and L.C.

PENELOPE.

Mr. James Cox. Ah! (starts).

BOX.

You've frightened her. You're so ugly.

PENELOPE.

Mr. John Box. Oh! (faints, and falls into a chair placed C.)

COX.

You've killed her. You Gorilla.

BOX.

Gorilla—(they are about to fight, when she screams again). What shall we do?

COX (excitedly).

Cold key—Senna—no, I mean Salts.

BOX (more excitedly).

Pooh! Cold water .... with something in it.

COX.

Where's the sulphur water—throw it—

PENELOPE (shrieking).

Ah! (rising). How dare you! (calls). Husband!

BOX.

She said Husband. Dearest—

[Penelope slaps his face.

COX.

She means me. I knew it. Angel—

[Penelope repeats the slap on HIS face.

BOX.

You did say “Husband?” Surely you can't be blind to the fascination of Don Boxos de Regalias Salamanca—

COX.

When you said “Husband” you must have been dreaming of Count Cornelius Cox, Landgrave.

PENELOPE.

Gentlemen. Mr. Cox ... Mr. Box—if the truth must be told—

BOX.

It will be painful for Cox—but tell it, brave woman, tell it.

COX.

It will be harrowing for Box—but out with it, courageous Penelope, out with it.

PENELOPE.

Well—when—I said—“Husband”—I meant...

COX.

Me—

PENELOPE.

No—

BOX.

Ha! ha! hooray! Me—

PENELOPE.

No....

BOTH.

Then whom did you mean?

PENELOPE.

When I said “Husband” I meant—

MAJOR BOUNCER, suddenly entering.

BOUNCER.

Me. (Sings in military style) “Rataplan! Rataplan!”

(Immense applause. “Why that's Captain Byrton,” exclaims the elderly lady, who, up to that moment, has been under the impression that he was playing the waiter.)

BOTH.

Him! You! Bouncer!

BOUNCER.

Major Bouncer, of the Banbury Light Horse, at your service. We were married this morning.

COX.

Stop! Virtuous but misguided Penelope. Bouncer is married already!

ALL.

Ah!

COX.

Behold! and tremble! Read it, Box (giving newspaper).

BOX (reads).

At the hotel So-and-so—um—Major and Mrs. Bouncer.

[PENELOPE and BOUNCER laugh.

COX.

They laugh! Horrible depravity.

BOUNCER.

Nonsense! Mrs. Bouncer mentioned there—

BOX.

Is not the Mrs. Bouncer we see here.

BOUNCER.

True. The Mrs. Bouncer here is Mrs. Penelope Bouncer, My Mrs. Bouncer; but the Mrs. Bouncer there is your old landlady, your Mrs. Bouncer, now, the Dowager Lady Bouncer.

BOX AND COX.

Good gracious!

BOX.

Has she any money?

COX.

Is she well off?

BOUNCER.

No. I support her entirely.

BOX.

Oh! Then bless you, Bouncer. Persevere. Go on supporting her.

COX.

I congratulate you, Bouncer. You may keep your Dowager to yourself.

PENELOPE.

And if you like to join us at the wedding-breakfast—

BOUNCER.

We shall be delighted—

PENELOPE.

Now, as always—

BOUNCER.

To see—

PENELOPE.

Two old friends.

BOUNCER.

Come, join hands. I'm an old soldier.

BOX.

You are.

BOUNCER.

I've stolen a march upon you.

COX.

You have.

BOUNCER.

But forgive and forget.

BOX.

I'll forget you with pleasure, but forgive—oh! Penelope Anne!

COX.

Well, I'll forgive you; but don't do it again.

BOUNCER.

I promise.

PENELOPE.

So do I.

BOX.

Do you? Then there's my hand, and when I've got my Castle in Spain you shall come and stop with me. (Aside) I'll have old Bouncer up before the Inquisition.

COX.

And when I've got my Palazzo di Coxo at Venice, you shall always find a knife and fork at your service. (Aside) I'll take him out for a walk by a canal and upset him.

[Enter Waiter with tray, which he puts down. Everything is placed ready for dÉjeÛner À la fourchette.

WAITER.

Das FrÜhstuck ist fertische.

(Applause.)

ALL.

Eh?

WAITER.

Break-a-fast.

[They sit.

BOX.

Permit me—

COX.

And me—

BOX.

To propose—

COX.

The health—

BOTH.

Of the Happy Pair. Major and Mrs. Bouncer. Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!

BOX (singing).

It's a way we have in the army.

[They all join in chorus.

Solos and Chorus.

(“Ha, ha!” “Les Dames de la Halle.”)

BOX.

SOPRANO ET TENOR.

BASSI.

COX.

ALL.

BOX.

COX.

BOX.

PENELOPE ANNE.

Ah!

BOX AND COX (together).

Chorus (including the Waiter, all at table standing up, glasses in hand convivially).

Tableau.—Bouncer on chair, with dish-cover and carving-knife. Waiter at side, waving napkin. Penelope between Cox and Box in centre.

Curtain descends.