BERTHA was sitting with her little brother-in-law. She was to give him half-an-hour, after which she expected a visit from Nigel.

“What on earth is it, old boy?”

She saw he had some rather untidy papers in his hand and was looking extremely self-conscious, so she spoke kindly and encouragingly.

“Well, I daresay you noticed, Bertha, in my report, that history was very good.”

“I think I did,” she said gravely. “If I recollect right the report said: ‘History nearly up to the level of the form.’”

“Oh, I say, was that all? Gracious! Well, anyhow, I’ve read a lot of history, and I’m fearfully keen about it. And, I say, my idea was, you see, I thought I’d write a historical play.”

“Oh! what a splendid idea!” cried Bertha, jumping up, looking very pleased, but serious. “Have you got it there, Cliff?”“Yes. Well, as a matter of fact, I have got a bit of it here.”

“Are you going to let me read it?”

“Well, I don’t think you can,” he answered rather naÏvely. “It’s not quite clean enough; but I’ll read a bit of it to you, if you don’t mind. Er—you see—it’s about Mary.”

“Which Mary?”

“Oh, Bertha! what a question! As if I’d write about William and Mary, or—er—er—I beg your pardon—I mean the other Mary. No, Mary, Queen of Scots, is the only one who’s any good for a play.”

“Well, go on, Clifford.”

“Well, it’s a little about”—he spoke in a low, gruff voice—“at least partly about hawking. You know, the thing historical people used to do—on their wrists.”

“Oh yes, I know, I know! I beg your pardon, Clifford.”

“With birds, you know,” he went on. “Oh, and I wanted to ask you, what time of the year do people hawk?”

“What time of the year? Oh, well, I should think almost any time, pretty well, whenever they liked, or whenever it was the fashion.”

“I see.” He made a note. “Well, I hope you won’t be fearfully bored, Bertha.”“I say, Cliff, don’t apologise so much. Get on with it.”

“Well, you see, it’s a scene at a country inn to begin with.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, it would be,” she murmured.

“At a country inn, and this is how it begins. It’s at a country inn, you see. ‘Scene: a country inn. The mistress of the inn, a buxom-looking woman of middle age, is being busy about the inn. It is a country inn. She is making up the fire, polishing tankards, etc., drawing ale, etc. On extreme L. of stage is seated, near a tankard, a youth of some nineteen summers, who is sitting facing the audience, chin dropped, and apparently wrapped in thought.’”

“Excuse me a moment, old chap, but that sounds as if his chin was wrapped in thought.”

“So it does; I’ll change that. Thanks awfully for telling me, Bertha.”

“Not at all, dear.”

“But it is frightfully decent of you.”

“All right. Get on.”

“‘At the back of the stage R. are seated two men; one of some eight and twenty summers the other of some six and twenty years old. They are seated in the corners of the stage and in apparently earnest conversation.’ (Now the dialogue begins, Bertha, listen):“‘Youth: Are you there, mistress? Is my ale nigh on ready? Zounds, I’m mighty thirsty, I am.’

“‘Mistress: Ay, ay, great Scot! here’s your ale. You can’t expect to be served before the quality.’”

“What did Pickering think of this?” interrupted Bertha.

“Pickering! Oh! I wouldn’t show it to a chap like that. At any rate, not unless you think it’s all right, Bertha.”

“Why, my dear boy, you’d better tell me the plot, I think, before you read me any more.”

“Mr. Nigel Hillier,” announced the servant.

Nigel sprang brightly in (just a little agitated though he managed to hide it), Bertha took her toes off the sofa, Clifford took up his play and shoved it into his pocket with a slight scowl.