Flo.  That’ll do him a lot of good, ’aving his name in the paper, won’t it?

Mr. H. Oh, ARTHUR’s gettin’ on fine.  Have you read the letters he’s sent over?  No?  Well, you come in to-morrow evening and have a look at ’em.  Look sharp, or they’ll be lent out again; they’ve been the reg’lar round, I can tell you.  I shall write and blow ’im up, though, for not sending me a telegraft, too.

Polly.  You!  ’Oo are you?  You’re on’y his brother, you are.  It’s different, his sending one to FLO.

Mr. H. (not altogether relishing this last suggestion).  Ah, well, I dessay I shall go out there myself, some day.

    [Looks at Miss FLO, to see how she likes that.

Flo.  Yes, you’d better.  It would make you quite a man, wouldn’t it? [Both girls titter.

Mr. H. (nettled).  ’Ere, I say, I’m off.  Good-bye!  Come on, ALF!

    [Fausse sortie.

Polly.  No, don’t go away yet.  Shall you take ’er out with you, ERNIE, eh?

Mr. H. What ’er?  I don’t know any ’er.

Polly (archly).  Oh, you think we ’aven’t ’eard.  ’Er where you live now. We know all about it!

Mr. H. Then you know more than what I do.  There’s nothing between me and anybody where I live.  But I’m going out to Ostralia, though.  I’ve saved up ’alf of what I want already.

Polly (banteringly).  You are a good boy.  Save up enough for me too!

Mr. H. (surveying her with frank disparagement). You?  Oh, lor!  Not if I know it!

Flo (with an exaggerated sigh).  Oh dear, I wish I was over there.  They say they’re advertising for maidservants—­fifteen shillings a week, and the washing put out.  I’d marry a prince or a lord duke, perhaps, when I got there.  ARTHUR sent me a fashion-book.

Mr. H. So he sent me one, too.  It was the Autumn fashions.  They get their Autumn in the Spring out there, you know, and their Christmas Day comes in the middle of July.  Seems rum, doesn’t it?

Flo.  He sent me his photo, too.  He has improved.

Polly.  You go out there, ERNIE, and p’raps you’ll improve. [FLO giggles.

Mr. H. (hurt).  There, that’s enough—­good-bye.

    [Fausse sortie No. 2.

Polly (persuasively).  ’Ere, stop!  I want to speak to you.  Is your girl here?

Mr. H. (glad of this opportunity).  My girl?  I ain’t got no girl.  I don’t believe in ’em—­a lot of—­

Polly (interrupting).  A lot of what?  Go on—­don’t mind us.

Mr. H. It don’t matter. I know what they are.

Polly.  But you like Miss PINKNEY, though,—­at the shop in Queen’s Road,—­you know.