sure I'd make a bleddy ass of myself. I cawn't act, you know."

The ninny! You know he thinks Gray really can.

But Obermuller explained to him that he needn't act--just be
himself out behind the wings, and lo! Lord Harold was
"chawmed."

And Gray?

Why, she gave in at last; pretended to, anyway--sliding out of
the Charity sketch, and rehearsing the thing with him, and all
that. And--and do you know what she did, Mag? (Nance Olden may be
pretty mean, but she wouldn't do a trick like that.) She waited
till ten minutes before time for the thing to be put on and then
threw a fit.

"She's so ill, her delicate Ladyship! So ill she just can't go
on this evening! Wonder how long she thinks such an excuse will
keep Lord Harold off when I want him on!" growled Obermuller,
throwing her note over to me. He'd have liked to throw it at me
if it'd been heavy enough to hurt; he was so thumping mad.

You see, there it was on the program:

THE CLEVER SKETCH ENTITLED

THEATRICAL ARISTOCRACY.

The Duke of Portmanteau . . . . Lord Harold Gray.