_Ralph_ (_rises hurriedly. Shakes hands with Tom, and skilfully manoeuvres him into the passage, then calls after him_). Good-bye, old man, and many thanks. (_Closes the door and returns to his desk, grinding his teeth._) Confound him! (_Takes up paper and writes a few lines, then reads aloud._) "Puffington puts the letter in his pocket and passes his hand through his hair. He groans 'O, why did I ever write those letters? I know Flossie, and this means fifty pounds at least, and if ever my mother-in-law gets to hear of it! O lor, here she is'" (_Puts down the paper and looks up at the ceiling._) Now, speaking to myself as one man to another, I can't help thinking that this sort of thing has been done before. I seem to have heard it somewhere. I'll--I'll--try a fresh start. (_Writes hurriedly for a few minutes and then reads._) "Scene.--Fashionable watering place, the beach is crowded; on the pier the band is playing a dreamy waltz. Edwin and Maud are discovered in an open boat. _Edwin._ You must be tired of rowing, sweetest; come and steer. _Maud._ Just as you like, darling. (_As they change seats the boat capsizes. After clinging for twenty minutes to the upturned keel, they are rescued by a passing steamer._)" That's all right for a "situation," but there seems a lack of dialogue. They can't very well talk while they are clinging to the boat; and what the deuce could they be talking about before? If I let them drown I shall have to introduce fresh characters. Bother! (_Meditates with frowning brow._) Playwriting appears to present more difficulties than I thought. (_Takes up a newspaper._) "May bring in anything from five to twenty thousand pounds!" Sounds tempting, but I wonder how it's done? [_Takes a cigar from the mantelpiece, lights it, and, seating himself near the fire, smokes thoughtfully. Gradually his head sinks back on to the top of the chair, the cigar drops from his relaxed fingers, and as he sleeps, the shadow of a smile breaks across his face. An hour elapses; he is still sleeping. Enter Mrs. Essendean, who brushes against the writing-table and sweeps the sheets of manuscript to the ground._ _Mrs. Essendean_ (_crossing to Ralph and lightly shaking him_). My dear, my dear, not dressed yet! Do you know the time--just the half-hour. (_Ralph starts up._) Eh? (_Looks at the clock._) Nearly half past, by Jove! I shan't be two seconds. [_Rushes hastily from the room._ _Mrs. Essendean (picks up the extinguished cigar, and drops it daintily into the fire. Looks round the room and sees the littering manuscript._) What an untidy old thing it is! (_Picks up the sheets, crumples them into a ball and throws them into the waste-paper basket._) There, that looks better. [_Gazes into the mirror, pats her hair, and exit._ (_End of the play._) * * * * *