_Verb._ (_bitterly_). And _that_ thing is my affianced husband Ah, no I cannot go through with it, he is _too_ repulsive! If I could but find a way to free myself without compromising poor Papa. The sofa-cushion! _Dare_ I? It would be quite painless.... Surely the removal of such an odious wretch cannot be _Murder_.... I will! (_Slow music. She gets a cushion, and presses it tightly over_ SPIKER’S _head._) Oh, I _wish_ he wouldn’t gurgle like that, and how he does kick! He cannot even die like a gentleman! (SPIKER’S _kicks become more and more feeble and eventually cease._) How still he lies! I almost wish ... Mr. Spiker, Mr. Spi-ker!... no answer--oh, I really _have_ suffocated him! (_Enter_ Sir POSH.) You, Papa? _Sir Posh._ What, Verbena, sitting with, hem--Samuel in the gloaming? (_Sings with forced hilarity._) “In the gloaming, oh, my darling!” that’s as it should be--quite as it should be! _Verb._ (_in dull strained accents_). Don’t sing, Papa, I cannot bear it--just yet. I have just suffocated Mr. Spiker with a sofa-cushion. See! [_Shows the body._ _Sir Posh._ Then I am safe--he will tell no tales now! But, my child, are you aware of the very serious nature of your act? An act of which, as a Justice of the Peace, I am bound to take some official cognizance! _Verb._ Do not scold me, Papa. Was it not done for _your_ sake? _Sir P._ I cannot accept such an excuse as that. I fear your motives were less disinterested than you would have me believe. And now, Verbena, what will _you_ do? As your father, I would gladly screen you--but, as a Magistrate, I cannot promise to be more than passive. _Verb._ Listen, Papa. I have thought of a plan--why should I not wheel this sofa to the head of the front-door steps, and tip it over? They will only think he fell down when intoxicated--for he _had_ taken far too much wine, Papa! _Sir P._ Always the same quick-witted little fairy! Go, my child, but be careful that none of the servants see you. (VERB. _wheels the sofa and_ SPIKER’S _body out,_ L.U.E.) My poor impulsive darling, I do hope she will not be seen--servants _do_ make such mischief! But there’s an end of Spiker, at any rate. I should _not_ have liked him for a son-in-law, and with him, goes the only person who knows my unhappy secret! _Enter_ BLETHERS. _Blethers._ Sir Poshbury, I have a secret to reveal which I can preserve no longer--it concerns something that happened many years ago--it is connected with your _birthday_, Sir Poshbury. _Sir P._ (_quailing_). What, _another_! I must stop _his_ tongue at all hazards. Ah, the rotten sash-line! (_To_ BLETHERS.) I will hear you, but first close yonder window, the night-air is growing chill. [BLETHERS _goes to window at back. Slow music. As he approaches it,_ Lord BLESHUGH _enters_ (R 2 E), _and, with a smothered cry of horror, drags him back by the coat-tails--just before the window falls with a tremendous crash._