written by William Wallace I want you to picture a drawing-room scene In a snug little house in Mayfair. Where the shaded light fell on the face of a man, Who was sitting asleep in his chair. He was careworn and tired, with the strain of life In which others were 'setting the pace,' But the troubles and worries had gone for the day, And a smile hovered over his face. The clock in the hall chimed a quarter to twelve, When he suddenly woke with a start, To find at his feet shrinking back from his gaze, His idol... the wife of his heart. He pushed back the beautiful curls from her brow, 'My darling... why shrink from me so?' 'Oh, George,... I've got something to tell you, Something I think you should know. I've waited so long for this moment, I've wanted to hear what you'd say, But somehow... it's dreadfully hard dear, When one's said one would love and obey.' He rose from his chair like a man in a dream, His handsome face clouded with wrath, And casting her from him like poison, In scathing indictment burst forth. 'So this is the end of my beautiful dream, So this is your secret, alas, To think that the very foundations of love, Should fall in this shattering mass. My future, my hopes... and ambitions, Lie in ruins... this bolt from the blue, Has shakened my faith in the stoutest of friends, And all through the frailty of YOU! ' His twitching hands clutched at her lily white throat, The veins on his forehead nigh burst, 'False Woman,' he cried, 'speak your secret, And tell me... yes... tell me the worst.' She rose from the floor, and upon both her cheeks, Two patches of colour flamed red, She looked at her judge with the utmost contempt, And these are the words that she said. 'Oh George... I've got something to tell you, It is you who should be 'on the mat,' A lady called round here this morning and said, You had left your cigars at her flat!!'
The end