Rachel.  Rachel. (She rises.)

Fitzhugh.  It is the most beautiful name in the world.  Rachel, will you be my wife?

Rachel.  But we have known each other such a short time!

Fitzhugh (lying bravely).  We have known each other for ever.

Rachel.  And you are a rich gentleman, while I—­

Fitzhugh.  A gentleman, I hope, but rich—­no.  To-morrow I shall be a beggar.  No, not a beggar, if I have your love, Rachel.

Rachel (making a lucky shot at his name).  Hugh! (They embrace.)

Fitzhugh.  Let us plight our troth here.  See, I give you my ring!

Rachel.  And I give you mine.

[She takes one from the end of a chain which is round her neck, and puts it on his finger.  Fitzhugh looks at it and staggers back.

Fitzhugh.  Heavens!  They are the same ring! (In great excitement.) Child, child, who are you?  How came you by the crest of the Fitzhughs?

Rachel.  Ah, who am I?  I never had any parents.  When they found me they found that ring on me, and I have kept it ever since!

Fitzhugh.  Let me look at you!  It must be!  The Squire’s missing daughter!

[Gaffers Jarge and Willyum, having entered unobserved at the back some time ago, have been putting in a lot of heavy byplay until wanted.

Jarge (at last).  Lor’ bless ’ee, Willyum, if it bain’t Squire a-kissin’ our Rachel!

Willyum.  Zo it du be.  Here du be goings-on!  What will t’ passon say?

Jarge (struck with an idea).  Zay, bor, don’t ‘ee zee a zort o’ loikeness atween t’ maid and t’ Squire?

Willyum.  Jarge, if you bain’t right, lad.  Happen she do have t’ same nose!

[Hearing something, Fitzhugh and Rachel turn round.

Fitzhugh.  Ah, my men!  I’m your new Squire.  Do you know who this is?

Willyum.  Why, her du be our Rachel.

Fitzhugh.  On the contrary, allow me to introduce you to Miss
Fitzhugh, daughter of the late Squire!

Jarge.  Well, this du be a day!  To think of our Rachel now!

Fitzhugh.  My Rachel now.

Rachel (who, it is to be hoped, has been amusing herself somehow since her last speech).  Your Rachel always!

Curtain.

“William Smith, editor”

The scene is the Editor’s room in the office of The Lark.  Two walls of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by magnificently-bound books:  the third wall at the back is hidden by boxes of immensely expensive cigars.  The windows, of course, are in the fourth wall, which, however, need not be described, as it is never quite practicable on the stage.  The floor of this apartment is chastely covered with rugs shot by the Editor in his travels, or in the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some cases, presented by admiring readers from abroad.  The furniture is both elegant and commodious.

William Smith, Editor, comes in.  He is superbly dressed in a fur coat and an expensive cigar.  There is a blue pencil behind his ear, and a sheaf of what we call in the profession “typewritten manuscripts” under his arm.  He sits down at his desk and pulls the telephone towards him.