[The crowd cheers, then slowly passes away, singing at a hoarse
     version of the Marseillaise, till all that is heard is a faint
     murmuring and a distant barrel-organ playing the same tune.]

Press. [Writing] “And far up in the clear summer air the larks were singing.”

Lord W. [Passing his heard over his hair, and blinking his eyes] James!  Ready?

James.  Me Lord!

L. Anne.  Daddy!

Lady W. [Taking his arm] Bill!  It’s all right, old man—­all right!

Lord W. [Blinking] Those infernal larks!  Thought we were on the Somme again!  Ah!  Mr. Lemmy, [Still rather dreamy] no end obliged to you; you’re so decent.  Now, why did you want to blow us up before dinner?

Lemmy.  Blow yer up? [Passing his hand over his hair in travesty]
“Is it a dream?  Then wykin’ would be pyne.”

Mrs. Lemmy.  Bo-ob!  Not so saucy, my boy!

Lemmy.  Blow yet up?  Wot abaht it?

Lady W. [Indicating the bomb] This, Mr. Lemmy!

     [Lemmy looks at it, and his eyes roll and goggle.]

Lord W. Come, all’s forgiven!  But why did you?

Lemmy.  Orl right!  I’m goin’ to tyke it awy; it’d a-been a bit ork’ard for me.  I’ll want it to-mower.

Lord W. What!  To leave somewhere else?

Lemmy.  ’Yus, of course!

Lord W. No, no; dash it!  Tell us what’s it filled with?

Lemmy.  Filled wiv?  Nuffin’.  Wot did yet expect?  Toof-pahder? 
It’s got a bit o’ my lead soldered on to it.  That’s why it’s ’eavy!

Lord W. But what is it?

Lemmy.  Wot is it? [His eyes are fearfully fixed on lady William] I fought everybody knew ’em.

Lady W. Mr. Lemmy, you must clear this up, please.

Lemmy. [To lord William, With his eyes still held On lady William—­ mysteriously] Wiv lydies present?  ’Adn’t I better tell the Press?

Lord W. All right; tell someone—­anyone!

[Lemmy goes down to the press, who is reading over his last note.  Everyone watches and listens with the utmost discretion, while he whispers into the ear of the press; who shakes his head violently.]

Press.  No, no; it’s too horrible.  It destroys my whole——­

Lemmy.  Well, I tell yer it is.

     [Whispers again violently.]

Press.  No, no; I can’t have it.  All my article!  All my article! 
It can’t be—­no——­

Lemmy.  I never see sick an obstinate thick-head!  Yer ’yn’t worvy of yet tryde.

     [He whispers still more violently and makes cabalistic signs.]