stowed away for our next production. Miss de Montmorenci had her "Miserere," Mr. Sam Travers his broken glass.
"Now," said Maxwell, "let's see how that bit goes, after Travers' scene—the bit between Scherazade and Zobeide, I mean."
Scher. One morning early when I sought my bower
Without spec-tater just to cull-a-flower,
I found my cavalier astride the wall,
And in the glass entangled, cloak and all.
And then I heard the wretched youth, alas!
Casting some strong reflections on the glass;
And, after having to perdition booked it,
He first unhooked his cloak, and then—he hooked it!
Zo. You did not see his face!
Scher.Alas! he fled
Ere I could make remarks upon that head;
But as I scanned the footsteps in the mould
With eager curiosity, behold
I found—
"Open the door! For God's sake, open the door!"
Maxwell and I started to our feet. We had "sported our oak," as we did not want to be disturbed, and the voice (a woman's) was accompanied by a violent knocking, as if the applicant were beating at the door with her open palm.
We ran to the door, and as soon as we had opened it a couple of women rushed violently past us into our sitting-room.
"Shut the door—don't stop to ask any questions—shut the door, I say!"
We closed it in mute astonishment. One of the women, the younger, had fallen on the hearthrug in a swoon; the elder was leaning against the mantelpiece,
