_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! [_He enters._ _In a Fly._ _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? _Phillipson._ Well, considering the shortness of our acquaintance, I must say you've spoken quite plainly enough as it is! _Undershell._ I know I must seem unduly expansive, and wanting in reserve; and yet that is not my true disposition. In general, I feel an almost fastidious shrinking from strangers---- _Phillipson_ (_with a little laugh_). Really? I shouldn't have thought it! _Undershell._ Because, in the present case, I do not--I cannot--feel as if we _were_ strangers. Some mysterious instinct led me, almost from the first, to associate you with a certain Miss Maisie Mull. _Phillipson._ Well, I wonder how you discovered _that_. Though you shouldn't have said "Miss"--_Lady_ Maisie Mull is the proper form. _Undershell_ (_to himself_). Lady Maisie Mull! I attach no meaning to titles--and yet nothing but rank could confer such perfect ease and distinction. (_Aloud._) I should have said _Lady_ Maisie Mull, undoubtedly--forgive my ignorance. But at least I have divined you. Does nothing tell you who and what _I_ may be?