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 him 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 some one could see it. Nobody laughed. PROFESSOR POLLEN. I don't know, Mr. Pushington, why, when I was describing my symptoms--which I can vouch for as scientifically correct--you persisted in kicking my legs under the table--it was unprofessional, Sir, and extremely painful! MR. PUSHINGTON. I was only trying to hint to you that as there were a dozen other people to follow, it was time you cut the interview short, Professor--that one syllable alone has taken nearly an hour. MISS BUCKRAM. If I had known the kind of questions you were going to ask me, Mr. Pushington, I should certainly not have exposed myself to them. I say no more, but I must positively decline to appear with you again.