_Spurrell._ But indeed, my lady, I--I think I'd better wait till she sends for me.
_Lady Cantire._ Wait? Fiddlesticks! What! A famous young man like you! Remember _Andromeda_, and don't make yourself so ridiculous!
_Spurrell_ (_miserably_). Well, Lady Cantire, if her ladyship _says_ anything, I hope you'll bear me out that it wasn't----
_Lady Cantire._ Bear you out? My good young man, you seem to need somebody to bear you _in_! Come, you are under _my_ wing. _I_ answer for your welcome--so do as you're told.
_Spurrell_ (_to himself, as he follows resignedly_). It's my belief there'll be a jolly row when I _do_ go in; but it's not my fault!
_Tredwell_ (_opening the door of the Amber Boudoir_). Lady Cantire and Lady Maisie Mull (_To_ SPURRELL.) What name, if you please, sir?
[Illustration: "WHAT NAME, IF YOU PLEASE, SIR?"]
_Spurrell_ (_dolefully_). You can say "James Spurrell"--you needn't _bellow_ it, you know!
_Tredwell_ (_ignoring this suggestion_). Mr. James Spurrell.
_Spurrell_ (_to himself, on the threshold_). If I don't get the chuck for this, I _shall_ be surprised, that's all!
_Undershell_ (_to himself_). Alone with a lovely girl, who has no suspicion, as yet, that I am the poet whose songs have thrilled her with admiration! _Could_ any situation be more romantic? I think I must keep up this little mystification as long as possible.
_Phillipson_ (_to herself_). I wonder who he is? _Somebody's_ Man, I suppose. I do believe he's struck with me. Well, I've no objection. I don't see why I shouldn't forget Jim now and then--he's quite forgotten me! (_Aloud._) They might have sent a decent carriage for us instead of this ramshackle old summerhouse. We shall be _hours_ getting to the house at this rate!
_Undershell_ (_gallantly_). For my part, I care not how long we may be. I feel so unspeakably content to be where I am.
_Phillipson_ (_disdainfully_). In this mouldy, lumbering old concern? You must be rather easily contented, then!
_Undershell_ (_dreamily_). It travels only too swiftly. To me it is a veritable enchanted car, drawn by a magic steed.
_Phillipson._ I don't know whether he's magic--but I'm sure he's lame. And stuffiness is not _my_ notion of _enchantment_.
_Undershell._ I'm not prepared to deny the stuffiness. But cannot you guess what has transformed this vehicle for me--in spite of its undeniable shortcomings--or must I speak more plainly still?