veterans take it up dutifully, and the ladies, bless their unlatinised minds, follow faintly towards the end. If a London manager wants applause in his theatre let him hire a contingent of small Westminster boys. They have attained to absolute perfection in the arts of the claque. At no Paris Theatre is it better done. The epilogue showed a pretty wit and a high degree of skill in the management of hexameter and pentameter. No one could have believed that the Kodak advertisement, "you press the button, we do the rest," would have made so good a Latin line. Much pleased, and so to bed.

Yours,

A Vagrant.

"A mere Question of Time."—Example: "What o'clock is it?"

OUR "HOUSE PARTY" AT CHRISTMAS.

NEW YEAR'S EVE AT LATTERDAY HALL.

(An Incident.)

Scene I.—Library in Latterday Hall, Sir Lyon Taymer's Country House. Sir Lyon Taymer discovered fuming by the mantelpiece, while his Secretary is glancing over some correspondence.

Sir Lyon (irritably). Here—I suppose you will have to answer this.

Secretary. What is that, Sir Lyon?

Sir Lyon. You know how anxious I am that my New Year's party should be a success. A whole heap of celebrities are coming, and, notwithstanding the immense expense, I engaged a party of Ghosts to amuse them. Now I have just had a telepathic communication from these Shadows of Shades—(that's all they are—only Ghosts of departed heroes and heroines in fiction)—asking whether they're to be treated on an equality with the other guests, or as mere entertainers! Did you ever hear of such impertinence! The spokesman—I should say, perhaps, the Spooksman—is, of all people in the other world, the VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. A clergyman too! It's quite inconsistent; and so snobbish!

Secretary. Dear Sir Lyon, excuse me, but it's perfectly natural that Ghosts should be a little sensitive on the social question. Remember, for years they were ignored, or looked upon as mountebanks. It is really only of late that there has been all this excitement about them, so it is not surprising they are anxious to be taken seriously.

Sir Lyon. Well, I suppose I am old-fashioned, but it seems to me quite ridiculous. These infernal Ghosts give themselves as many airs as though they were—the Blue Hungarians, at least.

Secretary. Ah, from a band we might expect airs. But I should advise you very strongly, Sir Lyon, to treat them as friends. You must be up to date.

Sir Lyon (with disgust). Allow them to dine—perhaps to dance—with my guests?

Secretary (with calmness). Certainly they will have to dine; and, as to dancing, of course they must, if they're received on an equal footing.

[Smiles to himself at his joke.

Sir Lyon. Oh—well—I suppose I must give in. Let them know at once, and for heaven's sake mind they're punctual.

[Scene closes as the Secretary hastily seizes a slate, and automatically writes to the Ghosts a very cordial and courteously-worded invitation.

Scene II.—New Year's Eve at Latterday Hall. In the magnificent dining-room are seated at dinner a large, well-known, and incongruous company. The Ghosts are chatting away in the most genial manner with the living distinguished people, and positively making the "celebrities" quite "at home." Daniel Deronda shows a marked liking for Dodo, whom he has taken to dinner, and is indulging in a light and airy flirtation with her, which takes a form peculiar to himself.

Dorian Gray taking Juliet in to dinner.

Daniel Deronda (earnestly). Who has ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb of matrimonial duty? Honesty is surely the broadest basis of joy in life.

Dodo (a modern Detail in accordion pleating, subject to morbid fits of irrelevant skirt-dancing). Oh, Mr. Deronda, what a silly girl I am! I can't bear that proverb about "Honesty being the best policy." It sounds like a sort of life Insurance.

[Giggles contemporarily. Dorian Gray having taken Juliet to dinner, and not getting on with her very well, is staring with unfeigned horror at Rochester, opposite, who is bullying Jane Eyre to a pitiable extent. Behind him is a screen of gilt Spanish leather, wrought with a rather florid Louis Seize design and encrusted with pearls, moonstones, and large green emeralds.

Dorian (aside, to Young Subaltern, who has come Home. On leave. For Christmas). Who is that dreadful man?

Young Subaltern. Who? Old Rochester? Oh, he's a Plain Hero. From the past. He's all right. How well you're looking! Younger than ever, by Jove! Which is curious. But why that absurd buttonhole?

Dorian (hurt). You never like anything I wear. You Anglo-Indians are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

[Arranges his fringe in an old Dutch-silver mirror on the opposite mantelpiece, framed in curiously-carved ivory Cupids, and studded with precious stones, chiefly opals, sapphires, and chrysoberyls.

Ethel Newcome (to Secretary). Who are those two pretty American girls? They seem to be attracting a great deal of attention. (I am completely forgotten, I notice.) Do their dresses come from Paris?

Secretary. No. I think not, dear Miss Newcome. From Messrs. Howells and James, I fancy.

Richard Feverel (cheerily, across the table to Mr. Pickwick). In tolerance of some dithyrambic inebriety—quiverings of semi-narration—we seem to be entering the circle of a most magnetic pseudo-polarity. Don't we?

Mr. Pickwick (puzzled). Very kind of you to say so, I'm sure. May I have the pleasure of taking wine with you?

[Dinner proceeds with animation. Bootles' Baby, Little Jim, Paul Dombey, and the Heavenly Twins come in to dessert, and are more or less troublesome.

Sir Lyon (aside, to Secretary, when the ladies have retired). I say, you know I am afraid this is going to hang fire. It's nothing less than a miracle for a social affair to go off well when the people are not in the same set. Old Pickwick's been asking for "a wassail bowl." I haven't got such a thing about me; and I should have thought '74 champagne