The 'Mind the Paint' Girl. Arthur Wing Pinero

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      Farncombe.

      Last week.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Of course; you came with Mr. Bertie Fulkerson. But somebody or other’s always poppin’ in. Pleasantly. Lil sees too many, I say. It’s tirin’ for ’er. Won’t you set?

      Roper.

      Lord Farncombe’s brought Lily some flowers, Ma. To Farncombe. Where are they?

      Farncombe.

      Who, after waiting for Mrs. Upjohn to settle herself upon the settee in front of the writing-table, sits in the chair at the end of the settee—pointing to a large basket of flowers. On the piano.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Barely glancing at the flowers. ’Ow kind of ’im! Sech a waste o’ money too! They do go off so quick.

      Roper.

      Reading the cards attached to the various floral gifts. Where is Lil?

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      She’s settin’ to a risin’ young artist in Fitzroy Street—Claude Morgan. She won’t be ’ome till past five. So tirin’ for ’er.

      Roper.

      Never heard of Morgan.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      No, nor anybody else. That’s what I tell ’er. Why waste your time givin’ settin’s to a risin’ young artist when the big men ’ud go down on their ’ands and knees to do you? But that’s Lil all over. She’s the best-natured girl in the world, and so she gets imposed on all round.

      Farncombe.

      Gallantly. I prophesy that Mr. Morgan’s picture of Miss Parradell won’t have dried before he’s quite famous.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Turning a pair of dull eyes full upon him. ’Ow do you mean?

      Farncombe.

      Disconcerted. Er—I mean—

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Why won’t it ’ave dried?

      Farncombe.

      I mean he will have become celebrated before it has dried.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      ’Is pictures never do dry, you mean?

      Roper.

      No, no, Ma!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      ’Owever, it doesn’t matter. ’E isn’t even goin’ to put ’er name to it.

      Roper.

      Why not?

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      You may well ask. ’E’s bent on callin’ it “The ‘Mind the Paint’ Girl.”

      Roper.

      What’s wrong with that? Everybody’ll recognise who that is.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Unconvinced. ’Er name’s printed on all ’er photos.

      Farncombe.

      The first time I had the pleasure of seeing your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Upjohn, a man next to me said, “Here comes the ‘Mind the Paint’ girl.”

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Cheering up. Oh, well, p’r’aps young Morgan knows ’is own business best. Let’s ’ope so, at any rate.

      Roper.

      By the tea-table, beckoning to Farncombe. Farncombe——

      Farncombe.

      To Roper. Eh? To Mrs. Upjohn, rising. Excuse me.

      Farncombe joins Roper, whereupon Mrs. Upjohn goes to the writing-table and, seating herself there, examines the jewellery delightedly.

      Roper.

      To Farncombe, in a whisper. Do me a favour.

      Farncombe.

      Certainly.

      Roper.

      Looking at his watch. It’s only half-past four. Take a turn round the Square. I’ve some business to talk over with the old lady.

      Farncombe.

      Nodding to Roper and then coming forward and addressing Mrs. Upjohn. I—er—I think I’ll go for a little walk and come back later on, if I may.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Contentedly. Oh, jest as you like.

      Farncombe.

      Moving towards the door. In about a quarter-of-an-hour.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      If we don’t see you again, I’ll tell Lil you’ve been ’ere.

      Farncombe.

      At the door. Oh, but you will; you will see me again.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Well, please yourself and you please your dearest friend, as Lil’s dad used to say.

      Farncombe.

      Thank you—thank you very much.

      He disappears, closing the door after him.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      To Roper, looking up. I b’lieve you gave that young man the ’int to go, Uncle.

      Roper.

      I did; told him I wanted to talk business with you.

      Mrs. Upjohn.

      Business? Resuming her inspection of the trinkets. This is a ’andsome thing Mr. Grimwood’s sent ’er.

      Roper.

      His hands in his trouser-pockets, contemplating Mrs. Upjohn desperately. Upon my soul, Ma, you’re a champion!

      Mrs. Upjohn.

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