_Sir Rupert_ (_stopping at a bedroom door_). Verney Chamber--here you are. Ah, my wife forgot to have your name put on the door--better do it now, eh? (_He writes it on the card in the door-plate._) There--well, hope you'll find it all comfortable--we dine at eight, you know. You've plenty of time for all you've got to do! _Spurrell_ (_to himself_). If I only knew _what_ to do! I shall never have the cheek to come down as I am! [_He enters the Verney Chamber dejectedly._ _In an Upper Corridor in the East Wing._ _Steward's Room Boy_ (to UNDERSHELL). This is your room, sir--you'll find a fire lit and all. _Undershell_ (_scathingly_). A fire? For me! I scarcely expected such an indulgence. You are _sure_ there's no mistake? _Boy._ This is the room I was told, sir. You'll find candles on the mantelpiece, and matches. _Undershell._ Every luxury indeed! I am pampered--_pampered_! _Boy._ Yes, sir. And I was to say as supper's at ar-past nine, but Mrs. Pomfret would be 'appy to see you in the Pugs' Parlour whenever you pleased to come down and set there. _Undershell._ The Pugs' Parlour? _Boy._ What we call the 'ousekeeper's room, among ourselves, sir. _Undershell._ Mrs. Pomfret does me too much honour. And shall I have the satisfaction of seeing your intelligent countenance at the festive board, my lad? _Boy_ (_giggling_). On'y to _wait_, sir. I don't set down to meals along with the _upper_ servants, sir! _Undershell._ And I--a mere man of genius--_do_! These distinctions must strike you as most arbitrary; but restrain any natural envy, my young friend. I assure you I am not puffed up by this promotion! _Boy._ No, sir. (_To himself, as he goes out._) I believe he's a bit dotty, I do. I don't understand a word he's been a-talking of! _Undershell_ (_alone, surveying the surroundings_). A cockloft, with a painted iron bedstead, a smoky chimney, no bell, and a text over the mantelpiece! Thank Heaven, that fellow Drysdale can't see me here! But I will not sleep in this place, my pride will only just bear the strain of staying to supper--no more. And I'm hanged if I go down to the housekeeper's room till hunger drives me. It's not eight yet--how shall I pass the time? Ha, I see they've favoured me with pen and ink. I will invoke the Muse. Indignation should make verses, as it did for Juvenal; and _he_ was never set down to sup with slaves! [_He writes._ _In the Verney Chamber._