_Sir P._ Can I trust my ears! You consent? Noble girl! [_He embraces her._ _Verb._ I was quite sure dear BLESHUGH meant to speak, and I _do_ love him very much. _Sir P. (starting)._ It is not Lord BLESHUGH, my child, but Mr. SAMUEL SPIKER, the gentleman (for he is at heart a gentleman) whom I introduced to you just now. _Verb._ I have seen so little of him, Papa, I cannot love him--you must really excuse me! _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 feller, 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._ * * * * * [Illustration: STRIKING HOME.] _Punch loquitur:_-- WELL, you have got your way, my lad, And may it prove good all round. Liberal pay is your right, I say, For your grim work underground. Rise of pay and a shorter day? Excellent things, belike, Yet would they were sought in another way Than the cruel road of a Strike.