The Magistrate Part 9

CHARLOTTE.

The women don't know it.

AGATHA POSKET.

But they'd like to know it. I mean they ought to know it! The other day I found my poor boy sitting on Lady Jenkins's lap, and in the presence of Sir George. I have no right to compromise Lady Jenkins in that way. And now, Charley, you see the whirlpool in which I am struggling--if you can throw me a rope, pray do.

CHARLOTTE.

What sort of a man is Mr. Posket, Aggy?

AGATHA POSKET.

The best creature in the world. He's a practical philanthropist.

CHARLOTTE.

Um--he's a Police Magistrate, too, isn't he?

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, but he pays out of his own pocket half the fines he inflicts.

That's why he has had a reprimand from the Home Office for inflicting such light penalties. All our servants have graduated at Mulberry Street. Most of the pictures in the dining-room are genuine Constables.

CHARLOTTE.

Take my advice--tell him the whole story.

AGATHA POSKET.

I dare not!

CHARLOTTE.

Why?

AGATHA POSKET.

I should have to take such a back seat for the rest of my married life.

[_The party at the card-table breaks up._

MR. BULLAMY.

[_Grumpily._] No, thank you, not another minute. [_To MR. POSKET._]

What is the use of talking about revenge, my dear Posket, when I haven't a penny piece left to play with?

MR. POSKET.

I'm in the same predicament! Cis will lend us some money, won't you, Cis?

CIS.

Rather!

MR. BULLAMY.

No, thank ye, that boy is one too many for me. I've never met such a child. Good-night, Mrs. Posket. [_Treads on a nut._] Confound the nuts!

AGATHA POSKET.

Going so early?

CIS.

[_To MR. POSKET._] I hate a bad loser, don't you Guv?

AGATHA POSKET.

Show Mr. Bullamy down stairs, Cis.

MR. BULLAMY.

Good-night, Posket. Oh! I haven't a s.h.i.+lling left for my cabman.

CIS.

I'll pay the cab.

MR. BULLAMY.

No, thank you! I'll walk. [_Opening jujube box._] Bah! Not even a jujube left and on a foggy night, too! Ugh!

[_Goes out._

_Enter WYKE with four letters on salver._

CIS.

[_To WYKE._] Any for me?

WYKE.

One, sir.

CIS.

[_To himself._] From Achille Blond; lucky the mater didn't see it.