“None of us can act to save our lives,” Amy Kendal superfluously informed us. “I cannot write a play,” said Bill Patch very firmly indeed. “But we could get up something musical, if you liked, and write our own libretto, and just set it to any tune that fits. I’ve seen that done very successfully at short notice, and it’s all there’ll be time for, if Lady Flower’s dance is to be three weeks from to-day.” “Fancy your saying that you couldn’t write a play! I’m sure you could write a play, Captain Patch,” said Mrs. Kendal amiably. “If a book, why not a play?” Bill Patch looked rather desperate, and said he didn’t know why not, but he couldn’t, and Mumma remarked again, three or four times, that she was quite sure he could easily write a play. “Miles, why don’t you stage-manage it for them?” said Mary Ambrey. “They’ll want someone....” In the end, they settled it that way, after talking until nearly eight o’clock. The last thing I heard, as everyone took leave of us at the same moment, was Mumma reiterating, pleasantly but steadily, her conviction (a) that it would be difficult to get enough men, and (b) that she was quite sure Captain Patch could easily write a play. _Chapter Five_ Two days later, Bill Patch and Mrs. Fazackerly came to consult us about their joint production. “It isn’t a play,” Captain Patch said, his red hair standing up on end. “Whatever Mrs. Kendal may think about it, I cannot write a play. But we’ve strung something together, more or less--mostly a few songs.” “We thought you’d know more about it than anybody else and would advise us,” said Nancy Fazackerly prettily. “Even Mrs. Kendal has never suggested that _I_ could write a play, my dear.” “But I’ve sometimes wondered whether _I_ oughtn’t to have gone in for writing,” said Claire. “Only I haven’t had the time.” “It’s more about the performers than the actual play that we want advice,” explained Captain Patch. “Though even that isn’t going to be all plain sailing. General Kendal--” “Most kindly,” said Nancy Fazackerly. “Most kindly,” Bill repeated, in a worried, obedient sort of way, “most kindly turned up last night with a pair of Hessian boots.” “Hessian boots?” “He thought they’d make such a good stage property and that we ought to write something that would make use of them. He really was most awfully keen, poor old fellow, and of course it isn’t a bad idea, in its way. Hessian boots, you know--you don’t see them nowadays.” To this we assented. “One could do something with a uniform, and the boots would give a finish, as it were,” Mrs. Fazackerly suggested. “Hessian boots, and a belt, and a busby, would give the idea of a Russian, I thought,” Bill Patch explained. “And we thought of doing something with that old song, ‘The Bulbul Ameer.’ You could make quite a lot out of it, and it would be much easier to dress up to that sort of thing than to a regular play. You remember the song I mean?”