_Sir P._ Ah, but you will, my darling, you _will_--I know your unselfish nature--you will, to save your poor old dad from a terrible disgrace ... yes, _disgrace_, listen! Twenty-seven years ago--(_he tells her all_). Verbena, at this very moment, there is a subscription on foot in the county to present me with my photograph, done by an itinerant photographer of the highest eminence, and framed and glazed ready for hanging. Is that photograph never to know the nail which even now awaits it? Can you not surrender a passing girlish fancy, to spare your fond old father’s fame? Mr. Spiker is peculiar, perhaps, in many ways--not quite of our _monde_--but he loves you sincerely, my child, and that is in itself a recommendation. Ah, I see--my prayers are vain ... be happy, then. As for me, let the police come--I am ready! [_Weeps._ _Verb._ Not so, Papa; I will marry this Mr. Spiker, since it is your wish. [Sir POSH. _dries his eyes._ _Sir P._ Here, Spiker, my dear fellow, it is all right. Come in. She accepts you. _Enter_ SPIKER. _Sp._ Thought she would. Sensible little gal! Well, Miss, you shan’t regret it. Bless you, we’ll be as chummy together as a couple of little dicky-birds. _Verb._ Mr. Spiker, let us understand one another. I will do my best to be a good wife to you--but chumminess is not mine to give, nor can I promise ever to be your dicky-bird. _Enter_ LORD BLESHUGH. _Lord B._ Sir Poshbury, may I have five minutes with you? Verbena, you need not go. (_Looking at_ SPIKER.) Perhaps this person will kindly relieve us of his presence. _Sp._ Sorry to disoblige, old fellow, but I’m on duty where Miss Verbena is now, you see, as she’s just promised to be my wife. _Lord B._ _Your_ wife! _Verb._ (_faintly_). Yes, Lord Bleshugh, his _wife_! _Sir P._ Yes, my poor boy, _his_ wife! [VERBENA _totters, and falls heavily in a dead faint,_ R.C., _upsetting a flower-stand;_ LORD BLESHUGH _staggers, and swoons on sofa, C., overturning a table of knicknacks;_ SIR POSHBURY _sinks into chair,_ L.C., _and covers his face with his hands._ _Sp._ (_looking down on them triumphantly_). Under the Harrow, by Gad! Under the Harrow! [_Curtain, and end of Act I._ ACT II. SCENE--_Same as in Act I.; viz., the Morning-Room at Natterjack Hall. Evening of same day. Enter_ BLETHERS. _Blethers._ Another of Sir Poshbury’s birthdays almost gone--and my secret still untold! (_Dodders._) I can’t keep it up much longer.... Ha, here comes his Lordship--he does look mortal bad, that he do! Miss Verbena ain’t treated him too well, from all I can hear, poor young feller! _Enter_ LORD BLESHUGH. _Lord Bleshugh._ Blethers, by the memory of the innumerable half-crowns that have passed between us, be my friend now--I have no others left. Persuade your young Mistress to come hither--you need not tell her _I_ am here, you understand. Be discreet, and this florin shall be yours!