_Mr. Wh._ (_severely_). Now, _really_. SETTEE, _do_ try not to footle
like this! [Mr. SETTEE _subsides amidst general disapproval_.

_Mr. Flinders_. (_With a flash of genius_). I've got it--_Gamboge_!

_Mr. Wh._ Gamboge, eh? Let's see how that would work:--"Gam"--"booge."
How do you see it yourself?

[_Mr. FLINDERS discovers, on reflection, that he doesn't see
it, and the suggestion is allowed to drop._

_Miss Pelagia Rhys_. _I've_ an idea. _Familiar!_
"Fame"--"ill"--"_liar_," you know. [_Chorus of applause._

_Mr. Wh._ Capital! The very thing--congratulate you, Miss RHYS!

_Mr. Settee_ (_sotto voce_). But I say, look here, _I_ suggested that,
you know, and you said--!

_Mr. Wh._ (_ditto_). What on earth _does_ it matter who suggests it,
so long as it's right? Don't be an ass, SETTEE! (_Aloud._) How are we
going to do the first syllable "Fame," eh? [Mr. SETTEE _sulks_.

_Mr. Pushington_. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a Poet,
and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot
of him, asking for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing the
Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.

[_He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat
inside out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by