[Gaffers Jarge and Willyum, having entered unobserved at the back some time ago, have been putting in a lot of heavy byplay until wanted. Jarge (at last). Lor' bless 'ee, Willyum, if it bain't Squire a-kissin' our Rachel! Willyum. Zo it du be. Here du be goings-on! What will t' passon say? Jarge (struck with an idea). Zay, bor, don't 'ee zee a zort o' loikeness atween t' maid and t' Squire? Willyum. Jarge, if you bain't right, lad. Happen she do have t' same nose! [Hearing something, Fitzhugh and Rachel turn round. Fitzhugh. Ah, my men! I'm your new Squire. Do you know who this is? Willyum. Why, her du be our Rachel. Fitzhugh. On the contrary, allow me to introduce you to Miss Fitzhugh, daughter of the late Squire! Jarge. Well, this du be a day! To think of our Rachel now! Fitzhugh. MY Rachel now. Rachel (who, it is to be hoped, has been amusing herself somehow since her last speech). Your Rachel always! CURTAIN. "WILLIAM SMITH, EDITOR" The scene is the Editor's room in the office of The Lark. Two walls of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by magnificently-bound books: the third wall at the back is hidden by boxes of immensely expensive cigars. The windows, of course, are in the fourth wall, which, however, need not be described, as it is never quite practicable on the stage. The floor of this apartment is chastely covered with rugs shot by the Editor in his travels, or in the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some cases, presented by admiring readers from abroad. The furniture is both elegant and commodious. William Smith, Editor, comes in. He is superbly dressed in a fur coat and an expensive cigar. There is a blue pencil behind his ear, and a sheaf of what we call in the profession "typewritten manuscripts" under his arm. He sits down at his desk and pulls the telephone towards him. Smith (at the telephone). Hallo, is that you, Jones? ... Yes, it's me. Just come up a moment. (Puts down telephone and begins to open his letters.) Enter Jones, his favourite sub-editor. He is dressed quite commonly, and is covered with ink. He salutes respectfully as he comes into the room. Jones. Good-afternoon, chief. Smith. Good-afternoon. Have a cigar? Jones. Thank you, chief. Smith. Have you anything to tell me? Jones. The circulation is still going up, chief. It was three million and eight last week. Smith (testily). How often have I told you not to call me "chief," except when there are ladies present? Why can't you do what you're told? Jones. Sorry, sir, but the fact is there ARE ladies present. Smith (fingering his moustache). Show them up. Who are they? Jones. There is only one. She says she's the lady who has been writing our anonymous "Secrets of the Boudoir" series which has made such a sensation. Smith (in amazement). I thought you told me YOU wrote these. Jones (simply). I did. Smith. Then why--