amount to much! I'd like to get even with that ancient female, I would.
Fred. But, I say, we must call on those girls—only how the dickens are we going to find them in this place? Shall we go along and knock on each door, (Gladys, behind screen, is horrified; exit hurriedly)—or ring for the janitor, or ask the girls?
Char. No, no; don't do that. They would smell a rat. No, hang it! let's put off telling them as long as possible. At all events till I've had a chance to see Gladys alone.
Fred. Oh, you've got a little story of your own to tell her, have you, old man? I wish you joy of your explanation. Ugh! (Shivers.)
Char. Oh, you let me alone. Confound it, if ever we get out of this scrape we'll never write to any more girls on the sly, eh? I prefer Gladys myself. She used to write me good letters once. (Sentimentally; strides up and down room, picks up an envelop from floor under the table, R.) Hello! what's this? Why, here's a letter, or rather the husk of one, addressed to me. Mabel's writing too, and sealed with Kit's seal—broken open!
Fred (going to him). I say, no fair reading private correspondence.
Char. It's addressed to me. By Jove, old man! I begin to-yes, that's it. (Claps Fred on shoulder.)
Fred (impatiently). Well, what is it? Can't say I see the joke.
Char. Why, you old donkey, see! (Holds out the envelope.) It's Kit's seal. She used it on Mabel's note by mistake. And it's Mabel’s writing; Kit's disguised, of course. And Gladys is Emma, and Kit is Mabel, and you are an idiot, and I'm another. But isn't it a huge joke?
Fred. Yes; extremely colossal for the girls. But, O Lord! what do you suppose your sister thinks of the stuff I wrote Mabel? (Mops his forehead violently.) I wouldn't have had her see it for a farm.
Char. Yours were pretty steep, that's a fact. Do you remember that last one you began "My darling"?
Fred. Oh, rot! Shut up, will you? You can't say much yourself. (Sits on divan moodily.)
Char. What blaméd jacks we were not to discover it before. Didn't know that writing-no kind of a disguise either. Oh, bang my head for me, will you?
Fred. With great pleasure, dear boy, if you will kick me. Oh, what idiots! But, hold on. Who are Mabel and Emma, anyway?
Char. Who are they? Why, no one, of course.
Fred. Don't you be so sure. Miss Griffin has a score against them anyway, for something, and we have got to explain to her about it all the same—deuce knows what, now we have said we were their brothers.
Char. Oh, I don't know anything about the whole business, anyway. But don't tell the girls yet; it's too good a joke on us.
