_Ernest Maltravers_ (_musingly, in a low yet ringing voice, in which Pride struggles with Emotion_). Let us learn, from yon dinner-table, o'er which brooded the spirits of the Novelists of all time, to lift ourselves on the wings of Romanticism back to Bombastic and Primeval Prose. (_Breaks off suddenly. Aside, to_ TOM JONES.) I cannot go on like this. We ought to have had a _scenario_.
_Tom Jones_ (_suppressing laughter, aside_). Why, thou foolish scoundrel, is there not one in front? How else could be seated there so many fair ladies and gallant gentlemen?
_Ernest Maltravers_ (_aside_). In the contemplation of your idiocy, I curb with difficulty the impulse that leads me to crush the life from your bosom. Know, Ignorant One, that a _scenario_ is not the same thing as an auditorium.
[TOM JONES _is about to attack him with fine old English violence, when the curtain suddenly falls. The entertainment is interrupted. The audience appear at once amused and shocked._ DORIAN_ takes out his little vinaigrette exquisitely set with turquoises, cymophanes, amethysts, and tourmalines, and offers it to the_ Subaltern, _who, evidently unaware of its use, pockets it._
_Subaltern._ You got that out of a cracker, didn't you? I'll take it Home. For the kids.
[_The entr'acte is growing so prolonged that the_ Secretary _goes behind the scenes to know the cause of the delay. He finds all confusion. The party has been increased by the presence of_ Mr. STEAD'S Spook JULIA, _who, having half an hour to spare, has come to protest against the "indignity" as she calls it, of fine old crusted Ghosts being expected to perform to a lot of mere modern myths. She speaks with such eloquence that she persuades them, one and all, to leave without finishing their performance and entirely without ceremony. Nothing the_ Secretary _can say has any effect, and they all vanish, leaving "not a wrack behind," except, a slate pencil JULIA has dropped in her excitement_.
_Sir Lyon_ (_after hearing the news_). Shameful! Never again will I have a Ghost in this house. This is what comes of treating them as equals! I'll--I'll--I'll write to the Psychical Society!
[_Scene closes as all the guests crowd round him and ask him to drink the health of Modern Fiction and--The New Year._