dead and gone, Mr. Texel, will tell their grandchildren proudly how they decided the famous case of Texel v.  Ebag.  Above all, I like to think of the witnesses revelling in their cross-examination.  Nobody will be more sorry than I to miss this grand spectacle of the greatest possible number of the greatest possible brains employed for the greatest possible length of time in settling a question that an average grocer’s assistant could settle in five minutes.  I am human.  But, I have been approached—­I have been flattered by the suggestion—­that I might persuade you two gentlemen to abandon the trial, and I may whisper to you that the abandonment of the trial would afford satisfaction in—­er—­influential quarters.

Texel.  Then are we up against the British Government?  Well, go ahead.

Alcar. (Protesting with a very courteous air of extreme astonishment.) My dear Mr. Texel, how can I have been so clumsy as to convey such an idea?  The Government?  Not in the least—­not in the least.  On behalf of nobody whatever. (Confidentially.) I am merely in a position to inform you positively that an amicable settlement of the case would be viewed with satisfaction in influential quarters.

Janet.  Well, I can tell you it would be viewed with satisfaction in a certain street in Putney.  But influential quarters—­what’s it got to do with them?

Alcar.  I shall be quite frank with you.  The dignity of Westminster Abbey is involved in this case, and nothing in all England is more sacred to us than Westminster Abbey.  One has only to pronounce the word “the Abbey”—­to realize that.  We know what a modern trial is; we know what the modern press is; and, unhappily, we know what the modern bench is.  It is impossible to contemplate with equanimity the prospect of Westminster Abbey and its solemnities being given up to the tender mercy of the evening papers and a joking judge surrounded by millinery.  Such an exhibition would be unseemly.  It would soil our national existence.  In a word, it would have a bad effect.

Carve. (Meditatively—­bland.) How English! (He gets up and walks unobtrusively about the room, examining the pictures.)

Alcar.  Undoubtedly.  But this is England.  It is perhaps a disadvantage that we are not in Russia nor in Prussia.  But we must make the best of our miserable country. (In a new tone, showing the orator skilled in changes of voice.) Can’t we discuss our little affair in a friendly way entirely without prejudice?  We are together here, among gentlemen—­

Janet.  I’m afraid you’re forgetting me.

Alcar. (Recovering himself.) Madam, I am convinced that none of us can be more gentlemanly than yourself....  Can we not find a way of settlement? (With luxurious enjoyment of the idea.) Imagine the fury of all those lawyers and journalists when they learn that we—­er—­if I may so express it—­have done them in the eye!