**Cis.** Beatie! **Beatie.** Cis de...

The Magistrate

Cis Farringdon Beatie Tomlinson

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Cis. Beatie!

Beatie. Cis dear! Dinner isn’t over, surely?

Cis. Not quite. I had one of my convenient headaches and cleared out. [Taking an apple and some cobnuts from his pocket and giving them to Beatie.] These are for you, dear, with my love. I sneaked ’em off the sideboard as I came out.

Beatie. Oh, I mustn’t take them!

Cis. Yes, you may—it’s my share of dessert. Besides, it’s a horrid shame you don’t grub with us.

Beatie. What, a poor little music mistress!

Cis. Yes. They’re only going to give you four guineas a quarter. Fancy getting a girl like you for four guineas a quarter—why, an eighth of you is worth more than that! Now peg away at your apple. [Produces a cigarette.]

Beatie. There’s company at dinner, isn’t there? [Munching her apple.]

Cis. Well, hardly. Aunt

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