LITMIR.BIZ

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to a pretty married woman; we lounge in her drawing-room, her boudoir; we make her our toy, our pastime. Do we allow a single thought of the scandal we may involve her in to check us in our pursuit of pleasure?

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Demurely.] No, I suppose you don’t.

      Claude.

      Never!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Perhaps you had better not come to tea with me quite so frequently in the future, Claude.

      Claude.

      You are right; you, and others, must see less of me. [Turning to her.] And yet, Kate, I am not all bad!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood enters. He is fifty-one, amiable, pompous, egotistical, foolish.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Why didn’t you wait for me, Claude, my boy?

      Claude.

      Sorry; my brain was reeling.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      [Meeting Mrs. Twelves.] A very proper, a very satisfactory termination of this affair, Mrs. Twelves.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      It has been awfully reassuring to see you beaming in Court, Sir Fletcher.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Ha! I daresay my attitude has been remarked. Beaming; why not? I’ve had no doubt as to the result.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      No doubt of Theo’s innocence—of course not.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Innocent; that goes without saying—my niece. But the result, in any case, would have been much the same, I venture to think.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Really?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      You see, my own public position, if I may speak of it——

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Oh, yes.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      [Smiling.] And I happen to know the judge—slightly perhaps; but there it is.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      But judges are not influenced by considerations of that kind?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Heaven forbid I should say a word against our method of administering law in this country. The House knows my opinion of the English Judicial Bench. At the same time, judges are mortal—I have never concealed that from myself; and Sir William and I have met. [To Claude.] You saw the judge look at me this morning, Claude?

      Claude.

      No.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      No? Oh, yes, and I half-smiled in return. Yesterday I couldn’t catch his eye, but today I’ve been half-smiling at him all through the proceedings.

      Justina runs in, seats herself at the pianoforte, and thumps out the Wedding March.

      Justina.

      Well, Uncle Fletcher!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Ah! ha!

      Justina.

      What price Mrs. Allingham?

      Mrs. Emptage returns. She has relieved the heaviness of her dress by a fichu of crêpe de soie.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Embracing Claude.] My darling! [Embracing Sir Fletcher.] Oh, my dear Fletcher! Be quiet, ’Tina!

      [Justina plays the air of a popular music-hall melody, softly; Mrs. Twelves comes to her.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I told you so—hey!

      Mrs. Emptage.

      We all said so.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      But I’ve been the most emphatic——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Where are Theo and Alec?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      They went over to Sir John Clarkson’s chambers directly the case concluded—I fancy, to consult him on some little point that had arisen. I managed to get one word——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Impulsively kissing Mrs. Twelves.] I’m so happy!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I contrived to get just one word with Alec as he was putting Theophila into the carriage. I wanted to tell him——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Pacing the room, humming the air played by Justina.] Tra, la, la! la, la! tra, la, la!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I wanted to tell him an amusing story I’d heard during the luncheon interval, but he hadn’t time to—— Ha, ha! It’s a legal anecdote. It appears that a fellow of the name of Babbitt once brought an action——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Did the judge apologise, Fletcher?

      [Justina stops playing.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Apologise!

      Mrs. Emptage.

      To Theophila?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      A judge never apologises.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      He might do worse, where such undeserved distress is occasioned a young wife and her husband——

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Hear, hear!

      Mrs. Emptage.

      To say nothing of her mother!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I surmise that the judgment of my friend Sir William was very strongly worded, and I daresay an expression of regret followed from Mrs. Allingham’s counsel. But I had quitted the Court, you know——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Oh, yes; Theo wrote you a note——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      But you are losing my anecdote. It appears that a man of the name of Babbitt—— One thing, Muriel, I will stake my reputation upon.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Peeping out at the side of the window blind.] What’s that?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      That the public applauded the decision roundly.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Pacing the room again.] I can hear them doing it! Bravo, Mrs. Fraser! Eh, girls?

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Plucky Mrs. Fraser!

      Justina.

      How jolly to have been there just then!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      As a matter of fact, I talked with several strangers of a humble rank of life, and hinted that a few cheers—so regrettable and unseemly in a court of law as a rule—I hinted that a few cheers would undoubtedly be justifiable in the present instance, as well as peculiarly agreeable to me. It seems that Babbitt——

      [Horton

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