rch, I-- I must speak to her.

JIMMIE.

W-w-wouldn't-- to-morrow----?

FARNCOMBE.

It _is_ to-morrow _now_. It's day.

JIMMIE.

[_Dropping her eyes._] She's tired.

FARNCOMBE.

Five minutes-- no longer. [_Entreatingly._] Won't you try to arrange
it for me?

JIMMIE.

[_Pursing her lips._] H'm! _I'd_ stay; delighted. [_Demurely._] It
doesn't matter how tired _I_ feel.

FARNCOMBE.

[_Contritely._] I'm a brute!

JIMMIE.

But I really think the _arranging_ is your job, Lord Farncombe.

FARNCOMBE.

I know I should make a bungle of it with all these people round me,
and attract attention. _You're_ clever.

JIMMIE.

[_Raising her eyes to his, abruptly._] Look here! Do I guess
correctly?

FARNCOMBE.

What----?

[_She pulls him towards her and whispers into his ear. He nods. She
whispers again, breathlessly, and then releases him._

JIMMIE.

Eh? Eh?

FARNCOMBE.

[_Drawing back and facing her, firmly._] Yes.

JIMMIE.

[_Walking away, in a flutter._] Oh! Oh! Oh!

FARNCOMBE.

You'll help me? [_She pauses, deliberating._] You'll help me?

JIMMIE.

[_Returning to him, with an air of prudence._] I tell you what I
_will_ do. [_Pointing to the writing-table._] Scribble her a note--
a line-- and I'll give it to her. That won't attract attention. I've
no objection to do _that_ for you. Hurry up! [_He sits at the
writing-table and searches for writing materials._] In the drawer.
[_He opens a drawer and takes out a sheet of note-paper. Standing at
the other side of the table, she selects a pen and hands it to him._]
A "J" suit you?

FARNCOMBE.

[_Taking the pen from her._] What shall I say?

JIMMIE.

Ho, ho! Well, I _never_! [_He writes._] Oh, but it isn't exactly a
love-letter, is it? Simply say-- what was the expression you used just
now?-- "will you allow me to remain behind for a few minutes with Miss
Birch after the others have gone?"

FARNCOMBE.

[_Writing._] Thank you.

JIMMIE.

[_With a little wriggle._] Call me Jimmie if you like.

FARNCOMBE.

Thank you.

JIMMIE.

[_Knitting her brow thoughtfully._] I suppose you ought to give her an
inkling, though-- the merest hint-- of the _reason_, oughtn't you?

FARNCOMBE.

[_Looking up._] Ought I?

JIMMIE.

Well, you don't want her to think it's only to chat about the
weather----!

FARNCOMBE.

For heaven's sake, don't chaff me! [_writing_] "--after the others
have gone?" [_Biting his pen._] How would this do? "I