Isobel (sitting up quickly).  What do you mean by another’s?

George.  You said you were engaged!

Isobel (suddenly realizing how the dreadful misunderstanding arose which nearly wrecked two lives).  But I only meant I was engaged to play tennis with Lady Carbrook!

George.  What a fool I have been! (He hurries on before the audience can assent.) Then, Isobel, you will be mine?

Isobel.  Yes, George.  And you won’t go and shoot nasty bears, will you, dear?  Not even grizzly ones?

George (taking her in his arms).  Never, darling.  That was only (turning to the audience with the air of one who is making his best point) A Slight Misunderstanding.

Curtain.

“Miss Prendergast”

As the curtain goes up two ladies are discovered in the morning-room of Honeysuckle Lodge engaged in work of a feminine nature.  Miss Alice Prendergast is doing something delicate with a crochet-hook, but it is obvious that her thoughts are far away.  She sighs at intervals, and occasionally lays down her work and presses both hands to her heart.  A sympathetic audience will have no difficulty in guessing that she is in love.  On the other hand, her elder sister, Miss Prendergast, is completely wrapped up in a sock for one of the poorer classes, over which she frowns formidably.  The sock, however, has no real bearing upon the plot, and she must not make too much of it.

Alice (hiding her emotions).  Did you have a pleasant dinner-party last night, Jane?

Jane (to herself).  Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. (Looking up.) Very pleasant indeed, Alice.  The Blizzards were there, and the Podbys, and the Slumphs. (These people are not important and should not be over-emphasized.) Mrs Podby’s maid has given notice.

Alice.  Who took you in?

Jane (brightening up).  Such an interesting man, my dear.  He talked most agreeably about Art during dinner, and we renewed the conversation in the drawing-room.  We found that we agreed upon all the main principles of Art, considered as such.

Alice (with a look in her eyes which shows that she is recalling a tender memory).  When I was in Shropshire last week—­What was your man’s name?

Jane (with a warning glance at the audience).  You know how difficult it is to catch names when one is introduced.  I am certain he never heard mine. (As the plot depends partly upon this, she pauses for it to sink in.) But I inquired about him afterwards, and I find that he is a Mr—­

Enter Mary, the Parlour-maid.

Mary (handing letter).  A letter for you, miss.