"Time's up," she says, presently, when sixty seconds have honestly expired. "You might have said that thirty seconds ago, and I should not have objected," says Mr. Kelly, with an assured smile. "And your idea." "_The Huguenots!_" Need I say that every one is exceedingly angry? "Ever heard it before?" asks Mr. Kelly, with aggressive insolence; which question, being considered as adding insult to injury, is treated with silent contempt. "I told you it was not to be done," says Olga, petulantly addressing everybody generally. "I can't agree with you. I see no reason why it should fall to the ground," says Miss Fitzgerald, warmly, who is determined to show herself off in a gown that has done duty for "Madame Favart," and the "Bohemian Girl," and "Maritana," many a time and oft. "I have another idea," says Mr. Kelly, at this opportune moment. "If it is as useful as your first, you may keep it," says Olga, with pardonable indignation. "I am misunderstood," says Mr. Kelly, mournfully, but with dignity. "I shall write to Miss Montgomery and ask her to make another pathetic tale about me. As you are bent on trampling upon an unknown genius,--poor but proud--I shall _not_ make you acquainted with this last beautiful thought which I have evolved from my inner consciousness." "Don't say that! _do_ tell it to us," says Monica, eagerly, and in perfect good faith. She knows less of him than the others, and may therefore be excused for still believing in him. "Thank you, Miss Beresford. _You_ can soar above a mean desire to crush a rising power. You have read, of course, that popular poem by our poet-laureate, called 'Enid.'" "Yes," says Monica, staring at him. "I mean the poem in which he has so faithfully depicted the way in which two escaped lunatics would be sure to behave if left to their own devices. Considered as a warning to us to keep bolts and bars on Colney Hatch and Hanwell, it may be regarded as a delicate attention. Dear Tennyson! he certainly is a public benefactor. There is a scene in that remarkable poem which I think might suit us. You remember where, after much wild careering in the foreground, the principal idiots decide upon riding home together, pillion fashion?" "I--I think so," says Monica, who plainly doesn't, being much confused. "'Then on his foot she sat her own and climbed,'--and then she threw her arms round him in a most unmaidenly fashion, if I recollect aright; but of course mad people _will_ be vehement, poor souls; they can't help it. Now, supposing we adopted that scene, wouldn't it be effective? One of Madam O'Connor's big carriage-horses, if brought forward,--I mean the one that kicked over the traces, yesterday,--would, I firmly believe, create quite a sensation, and in all probability bring down the house." "The stage, certainly," says Desmond.