BADLY SYNGED.

The scene is the morning-room of the Smith-Hybrows' South London residence.
It is the day following the final performance of the Smith-Hybrows'
strenuous season of J.M. SYNGE drama, undertaken with the laudable
intention of familiarising the suburb with the _real_ Irish temperament and
the works of the dramatist in question.

Mrs. Smith-Hybrow is seated at the breakfast-table, her head buried behind
the coffee urn. She is opening her letters and "keening" softly as she
rocks in her chair.

_Mrs. Smith-Hybrow_ (_scanning a letter_). Will I be helping them with the
sale of work? It's little enough the like of me will be doing for them the
way I was treated at the last Bazaar, when Mrs. McGupperty and Mrs.
Glyn-Jones were after destroying me with the cutting of the sandwiches. And
was I not there for three days, from the rising of the blessed sun to the
shining of the blessed stars, cutting and cutting, and never a soul to bear
witness to the destroying labour of it, and the two legs of me like to give
way with the great weariness (_keens_)? I'll have no call this year to be
giving in to their prayers and beseechings, and I won't care the way the
Curate will be after trying to come round me, with his eyes looking at me
the way the moon kisses the drops of dew on the hedgerows when the road is
white.

[_Opens another letter, keening the while in a slightly higher key.
Enter_ Gertrude Smith-Hybrow. _She crosses to the window and stares
out._