[_Looking at Peggy._] I haven't ordered a lobster salad. [_In an undertone._] You know, this is getting extremely vexing. [_He takes from his pocket the packets of money previously given him by Miss Dyott._] I've already paid a bill for some oysters and a _pâté de foie gras_. Jane's wages went for that. [_Opening a packet._] Now, here's a salad. That breaks into next week's household expenses. [_Handing the money to Tyler, who goes out._] PEGGY. We're only girls, you know. And you seem to forget you're our uncle. QUECKETT. [_Irritably._] I am _not_ your uncle. PEGGY. To-night you are. But you needn't be our uncle to-morrow. QUECKETT. [_Gloomily._] Somebody will have to be _my_ uncle to-morrow. Then I understand there's a lark pudding ordered for half-past nine. I can't allow the account to be sent in to--to-- PEGGY. To Auntie? QUECKETT. Well--to--to Auntie. Who pays for the lark pudding? PEGGY. You couldn't well ask girls to do it; besides, it's your party. QUECKETT. It is _not_ my party, and it is _your_ lark pudding. PEGGY. It may be our lark--but it's your pudding. [_Tyler enters still much astonished, and with another bill._] QUECKETT. [_Taking the bill._] What's that? TYLER. Sich a lot of champagne's come, sir! PEGGY. Champagne! Who ordered that? I didn't. QUECKETT. Hush! I did--I did--I did. PEGGY. Then it _is_ your party? QUECKETT. Part of the party is my party. [_Opening another packet._] I've broken into the rent. [_He hands Tyler the bill and some money, pocketing the remainder. Tyler goes out._] The Fire Insurance alone remains intact. [_Opening the last packet._] Postal Orders for thirty shillings. I'll despatch that, at any rate. [_He sits at the writing-table and begins to write. Peggy hammers up the last piece of holly, as Queckett tries to write._] Oh, you vexing girl! PEGGY. Beg pardon; this is the last blow. [_She gives another knock as Jane enters, carrying a large ornamental wedding-cake. Jane is in a black gown and smart cap and apron; her eyes are wide open with pleasure and astonishment. Jane deposits the cake upon the writing-table before Queckett._] JANE. 'Scuse me, sir; the confectioner's jest brought the things. QUECKETT. What's that? _That_ isn't the lark pudding. JANE. Oh, lor', no, sir! [_She goes out._] PEGGY. Oh, that's the wedding-cake. QUECKETT. Oh, come--it isn't my wedding-cake. PEGGY. [_Laughing._] Oh, don't, you funny man! No, it's Mr. Paulover's. QUECKETT. Who the dev-- PEGGY. Hush! QUECKETT. Let's settle one thing at a time. Who is Paulover? PEGGY. Dear Dinah's husband. QUECKETT. Dear Dinah? PEGGY. Your niece--Dinah Rankling. QUECKETT. Married? PEGGY. Secretly. To Mr. Paulover. [_Queckett puts his hand to his brow._] QUECKETT. Oh, that's old Paulover, is it? PEGGY.