MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see that we must have your tale.

TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about everywhere. One is of my own poor s.e.x, a man, a thing of whiskers; the other has the honour to belong to that s.e.x which--have I said it?--you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission?

DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come.

MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all.

TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know--But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.]

DAUGHTER. Mother, something _is_ going to happen at last.

MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that?

[The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.]

TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis.

DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels.

MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir.

TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess--a courtesy t.i.tle bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day--plays upon the fiddle with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke--the t.i.tle was granted last Candlemas--has a voice of a rare richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal.

DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame!

SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies.

MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir.

TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays "cuckoo" with an air.)

SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies.

TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he maligns me. Have I not a G of surpa.s.sing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my G. Now, where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on the pipe.) I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to MOTHER and then to DAUGHTER.)

SINGER. Marvellous!

MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir.

DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid?

TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame?

MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel more in need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no other talent to match the singing and playing of your friends?

FIDDLER. He talks.

MOTHER. I had noticed it.

TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit like myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn disposition; this--I--(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence. Have I your gracious permission to begin again?

MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir.

TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame--

MOTHER. If you could, sir.

TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I--er--go round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business.

DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money.

TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which you observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to melancholy.

DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you?

TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for myself I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance will be limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe.

MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be glad to hear your friends.

(The TALKER bows and turns to his company.)

TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.

FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.

SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)

Oh, when the wind is in the North, I take my staff and sally forth; And when it whistles from the East I do not mind it in the least; The warm wind murmurs through the trees Its messages from Southern seas; But after all perhaps the best Is that which whispers from the West.

Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!

The staff which helps to carry me, I cut it from the Hazel-tree; But once I had a cudgel torn Most circ.u.mspectly from the Thorn; I know a fellow, far from rash, Who swears entirely by the Ash; And all good travellers invoke A blessing on the mighty Oak.

Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!

Some years ago I gave my heart To Prue until we had to part; Then, seeing Susan's pretty face, I left it with her for a s.p.a.ce; And Susan had my heart until I wanted it for Mistress Jill; I think, although I am not clear, That Chloe's had it this last year.

Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!

(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the applause.)

DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse.

TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy fellow by nature. But waggish--waggish withal.

SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us, Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one woman only.

TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses to it.