_Mr. Settee_ (_nervously_). I've thought of a word. How would--er--"_Familiar_" do? _Mr. Wh._ (_severely_). Now, _really_. SETTEE, _do_ try not to footle like this! [Mr. SETTEE _subsides amidst general disapproval_. _Mr. Flinders_. (_With a flash of genius_). I've got it--_Gamboge_! _Mr. Wh._ Gamboge, eh? Let's see how that would work:--"Gam"--"booge." How do you see it yourself? [_Mr. FLINDERS discovers, on reflection, that he doesn't see it, and the suggestion is allowed to drop._ _Miss Pelagia Rhys_. _I've_ an idea. _Familiar!_ "Fame"--"ill"--"_liar_," you know. [_Chorus of applause._ _Mr. Wh._ Capital! The very thing--congratulate you, Miss RHYS! _Mr. Settee_ (_sotto voce_). But I say, look here, _I_ suggested that, you know, and you said--! _Mr. Wh._ (_ditto_). What on earth _does_ it matter who suggests it, so long as it's right? Don't be an ass, SETTEE! (_Aloud._) How are we going to do the first syllable "Fame," eh? [Mr. SETTEE _sulks_. _Mr. Pushington_. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a Poet, and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot of him, asking for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing the Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it. [_He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of indicating the eccentricity of genius; the Ladies adorn themselves with a similar regard to realism, and even more care for appearances._ AFTER THE FIRST SYLLABLE. _The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed by faint applause_. _Mr. Pushington_. Went capitally, that syllable, eh? (_No response._) You might have played up to me a little more than you did--you others. You let me do everything! _Miss Larkspur_. You never let any of us get a word in! _Mr. Pushington_. Because you all talked at once, that was all. Now then--"ill." I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to me one by one, and say you're _ill_--see? [_Attires himself for the rôle of a Physician in a dressing-gown and an old yeomanry helmet._ _Mr. Whipster_ (_huffily_). Seems to me I may as well go and sit with the audience--I'm no use _here_! _Mr. Pushington_. Oh, yes, WHIPSTER, I want you to be my confidential butler, and show the patients in. [_Mr. W. accepts--with a view to showing PUSHINGTON that other people can act as well as he._ AFTER THE SECOND SYLLABLE. _Mr. Pushington_. Seemed to _drag_ a little, somehow! There was no necessity for you to make all those long soliloquies, WHIPSTER. A Doctor's confidential servant wouldn't chatter so much! _Mr. Whipster_. You were so confoundedly solemn over it, I had to put some fun in _somewhere_! _Mr. P._ Well, you might have put it where someone could see it. Nobody laughed.