exercise of your own common sense would have shown you——But there, no great harm has been done, fortunately, so let us say no more about it. I have something more agreeable to talk about. I've every reason to hope that Maisie and dear Gerald Thicknesse——

Lady Culv. (astonished). Maisie? But I thought Gerald Thicknesse spoke as if——!

Lady Cant. Very possibly, my dear. I have always refrained from giving him any encouragement, and I wouldn't put any pressure upon dear Maisie for the world—still, I have my feelings as a mother, and I can't deny that, with such prospects as he has now, it is gratifying for me to think that they may be coming to an understanding together at this very moment; she is showing him the grounds; which I always think are the great charm of Wyvern, so secluded!

Lady Culv. (puzzled). Together! At this very moment! But—but surely Gerald has gone?

Lady Cant. Gone! What nonsense, Albinia! Where in the world should he have gone to?

Lady Culv. He was leaving by the 10.40, I know. For Aldershot. I ordered the cart for him, and he said good-bye after breakfast. He seemed so dreadfully down, poor fellow, that I quite fancied from what he said that Maisie must have——

Lady Cant. Impossible, my dear, quite impossible! I tell you he is here. Why, only a few minutes ago, Mrs. Chatteris was telling me—— Ah, here she is to speak for herself. (To Mrs. Chatteris, who appears, arrayed for public service.) Mrs. Chatteris, did I, or did I not, understand you to say just now that my daughter Maisie——?

Mrs. Chatt. (alarmed). But, dear Lady Cantire, I had no idea you would disapprove. Indeed you seemed——And really, though she certainly takes an interest in him, I'm sure—almost sure—there can be nothing serious—at present.

Lady Cant. Thank you, my dear, I merely wished for an answer to my question. And you see, Albinia, that Gerald Thicknesse can hardly have gone yet, since he is walking about the grounds with Maisie.

Mrs. Chatt. Captain Thicknesse? But he has gone, Lady Cantire! I saw him start. I didn't mean him.

Lady Cant. Indeed? then I shall be obliged if you will say who it is you did mean.

Mrs. Chatt. Why, only her old friend and admirer—that little poet man, Mr. Blair.

Lady Cant. (to herself). And I actually sent him to her! (Rising in majestic wrath.) Albinia, whatever comes of this, remember I shall hold you entirely responsible!

[She sweeps out of the room; the other two ladies look after her, and then at one another, in silent consternation.

"I'll be off, or they'll nail me for church!"

THE WHIMS OF AMPHITRYON.

Isn't our good friend of the P. M. G. a little extravagant with his culinary raptures? However, we will not be outdone. If he rhapsodises the "Magnificent Mushroom," we have discovered a still more exalting theme, which, taking "whelk" as pronounced, we will call

THE WITCHERY OF THE WHELK.

Would you learn the divinest glory of a goddess among molluscs? Would you note the gastronomic charms of a succulent sea-nymph? Ostracise, then, from your table the blue-point impostor that foists his bearded banality on the faithful elect. Let the cult of that lusty Titan, the Limpet, sink awhile into the limbo of outworn idolatries. Forbear, if you are wise, to hymn the stern masculinity of the Mussel, gregarious demi-god but taciturn, hermetically sealed within the wilful valves of a sulky self-effacement. And let that other fakir of the sea-marge, the fantastic and Pharisaic Scallop, ply his Eleusinian rites, unrevered by the devout and metaphor-mixing epicure. Rather let it be ours to celebrate, though baldest prose were all-insufficient, the allurements of a pandemic Aphrodite, the seductive Whitechapel Whelk, and the coy grace of her sister, the wanton Winkle of Rosherville.

Let us take the first—assume that the siren is yours, then consider how fitliest she shall be dressed. And here it shall be seen whether you have true chivalry and romance in your soul, or whether you grovel in mere sensual gourmandise. What says Master Bill Nupkins, master-cook to the Blue Pig chop-house in Skittle-alley? Is there not an idyllic flavour of Cocaigne, a very fervour of simplicity about his spelling which goes straight to the gizzard of the whelk-worshipper? Listen to his wise counsel on whelks à la Shoreditch:—

"Tyke three 'aputh of whilks, 'Erne By sort fer choice, and chuck 'em wiv a saveloy and a kipper into a sorcepan, if you can nick one from a juggins. Bile 'em till they're green, and add 'arf a glorss of unsweetened, tho it's a pity to wyste it. If toimes is 'ard, the kids and the missus can 'ave the rinsings, or go wivout. Taike my tip, and don't you be a bloomin' mug. You can blyme well stick to the juggins' sorcepan. You may, I dessay, raise arf a dollar on it." There speaks the true gourmet, with single-hearted straight-forward egotism, worthy of a City alderman, in all the glory of a civic banquet. To none but an artist in guttlery would that touch of genius about the kids and the missus occur.

Again, disdain not the sweetly subtle recipes and romantic fancies that you may gather during your sojourn at Colney Hatch. For there, far from the dull Philistinism of house-dinners and fried-fish shops, with all wild Mænad orgies may your divinity be adored. Learn but one magic formula, and you shall see the wizard-working of your incantation, as, like an enchantress herself bewitched, she assumes you an ensorceled, faery shape. Here, mark you, is this potent spell, culled from the inspired lips of a frenzied chef.

To Make Whelk Fritters.—Take one ripe whelk, draw and truss it until you are black in the face, tie up the forequarter with chickweed, sit down, and smoke a pipe; parboil anything you like for a few hours, or don't, if you don't care to; rub the purée through a tammy (I don't know what this is); flavour with elbow-grease, egg-faisandé, mud-salad, and bêtes noire; dredge the gallimaufrey, and hold your nose; write some letters; the vol-au-vent will then explode; wrap the pieces in an old sock, and bury for six weeks; take the 2.13 train to town, and have your hair cut, or pay some calls; then start again with another whelk, and proceed as before; but it is better to buy the fritters ready-made."

Is not this a lesson in devotion and perseverance? Rejoice greatly, and work out your sybaritic salvation.

And now that you have food for pious reflection, after a space you shall, to your exceeding great advantage, be further instructed in the liturgy of the Winkle.