_Blethers._ Leave it to me, my lord. I’d tell a lie for less than that, any day, old as I am! [_Exit._ _Lord Bl._ I cannot rest till I have heard from her own lips that the past few hours have been nothing but a horrible dream.... She is coming! Now for the truth! _Enter_ VERBENA. _Verbena._ Papa, did you want me? (_Recognises Lord B.--controls herself to a cold formality._) My lord, to what do I owe this--this unexpected intrusion? [_Pants violently._ _Lord Bl._ Verbena, tell me, you cannot really prefer that seedy snob in the burst boots to me? _Verb._ (_aside_). How can I tell him the truth without betraying dear Papa? No, I must lie, though it kills me. (_To Lord B._) Lord Bleshugh, I have been trifling with you. I--I never loved you. _Lord B._ I see, and all the while your heart was given to a howling cad? _Verb._ And if it was, who can account for the vagaries of a girlish fancy! We women are capricious beings, you know. (_With hysterical gaiety._) But you are unjust to Mr. Spiker--he has not _yet_ howled in _my_ presence--(_aside_)--though I very nearly did in _his_! _Lord B._ And you really love him? _Verb._ I--I love him. (_Aside._) My heart will break! _Lord B._ Then I have no more to say. Farewell, Verbena! Be as happy as the knowledge that you have wrecked one of the brightest careers, and soured one of the sweetest natures in the county, will permit. (_Goes up stage, and returns._) A few days since you presented me with a cloth pen-wiper, in the shape of a dog of unknown breed. If you will kindly wait here for half-an-hour, I shall have much pleasure in returning a memento which I have no longer the right to retain, and there are several little things I gave you which I can take back with me at the same time, if you will have them put up in readiness. [_Exit._ _Verbena._ Oh, he is cruel, cruel! but I shall keep the little bone yard-measure, and the diamond pig--they are all I have to remind me of him! _Enter_ SPIKER, _slightly intoxicated._ _Spiker._ (_throwing himself on sofa without seeing Verb._) I don’ know how it is, but I feel precioush shleepy, somehow. P’raps I _did_ partake lil’ too freely of Sir Poshbury’s gen’rous Burgundy. Wunner why they call it “gen’rous”--it didn’t give _me_ anything--’cept a bloomin’ headache! However, I punished it, and old Poshbury had to look on and let me. He-he! (_Examining his hand._) Who’d think, to look at thish thumb, that there was a real live Baronet squirmin’ under it. But there ish! [_Snores._ [Illustration: Spiker spiked.]