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 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 role 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 someone 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!