MRS. G. (Looking towards Simla.) Poor dears!
Just fancy if we have!
CAPT. G. Then we’ll hang on to the whole
show, for it’s a great deal too jolly to lose—eh,
wife o’ mine?
MRS. G. O Pip! Pip! How much of you is a
solemn, married man and how much a horrid, slangy
schoolboy?
CAPT. G. When you tell me how much of you was
eighteen last birthday and how much is as old as the
Sphinx and twice as mysterious, perhaps I’ll
attend to you. Lend me that banjo. The spirit
moveth me to yowl at the sunset.
MRS. G. Mind! It’s not tuned. Ah!
How that jars.
CAPT. G. (Turning pegs.) It’s amazingly
difficult to keep a banjo to proper pitch.
MRS. G. It’s the same with all musical instruments.
What shall it be?
CAPT. G. ‘Vanity,’ and let the
hills hear. (Sings through the first and half of
the second verse. Turning to MRS. G.) Now,
chorus! Sing, Pussy!
BOTH TOGETHER. (Con brio, to the horror of the
monkeys who are settling for the night.)—
‘Vanity, all is Vanity,’
said Wisdom, scorning me—
I clasped my true Love’s tender hand
and answered
frank and free—ee:—
’If this be Vanity who’d
be wise? If this be Vanity who’d
be wise? If this be Vanity who’d
be wi—ise? (Crescendo.) Vanity
let it be!’
MRS. G. (Defiantly to the gray of the evening sky.)
’Vanity let it be!’
ECHO. (From the Fagoo spur.) Let it be!
And you may go into every room of the house and see
everything that is there, but into the Blue Room you
must not go.
—The Story of
Blue Beard.
SCENE.—The GADSBYS’ bungalow
in the Plains. Time, 11 A. M. on a Sunday
morning. CAPTAIN GADSBY, in his shirt-sleeves,
is bending over a complete set of Hussar’s equipment,
from saddle to picketing-rope, which is neatly spread
over the floor of his study. He is smoking an
unclean briar, and his forehead is puckered with thought.
CAPT. G. (To himself, fingering a headstall.)
Jack’s an ass. There’s enough brass
on this to load a mule—and, if the Americans
know anything about anything, it can be cut down to
a bit only. ’Don’t want the watering-bridle,
either. Humbug!—Half a dozen sets of
chains and pulleys for one horse! Rot! (Scratching
his head.) Now, let’s consider it all over
from the beginning. By Jove, I’ve forgotten
the scale of weights! Ne’er mind.
’Keep the bit only, and eliminate every boss
from the crupper to breastplate. No breastplate
at all. Simple leather strap across the breast—like
the Russians. Hi! Jack never thought of that!
MRS. G. (Entering hastily, her hand bound in a
cloth.) Oh, Pip, I’ve scalded my hand over
that horrid, horrid Tiparee jam!
CAPT. G. (Absently.) Eh! Wha-at?
