you remember what day this is, by any chance?

Jack. Haven't an idea. Isn't there a calendar on your writing-table?—that ought to tell you, if you want to know.

Mrs. R. Thank you, I don't require a calendar. To-day is the twenty-third—the day you and I were married. [Sighs.

Jack. 'Pon my word I believe you're right. The twenty-third—so it is! [He becomes silent.

Mrs. R. (to herself, as the "Wedding March" continues jubilantly). He is ashamed of himself. I knew he would be—only he doesn't quite know how to tell me so; he will presently.... I wish I could see his face.... If he is only sorry enough, I think I shall forgive him. JACK! (Softly.) JACK dear! (A prolonged snore from the arm-chair. She goes to him and touches his arm.) You had better go down-stairs and have your cigar, hadn't you? It may keep you awake! (Bitterly.)

Jack (opening his eyes). Eh?—oh! Well, if you're sure you don't mind being alone, I rather think I will.

Mrs. R. I should infinitely prefer being alone—I am so used to it.

[Exit JACK, as the "Wedding March" comes to a triumphant conclusion.

THIRD ANNIVERSARY—1895.

Same Scene. Time, 11:30 P.M. Mrs. MANDOLINE discovered with her Daughter.

Mrs. M. Nearly twelve, and JACK not in yet—on this of all days, too! VIOLA, you will be weak, culpably weak, if you don't speak to him, very seriously, when he does come in.

Mrs. R. (ruefully). I can't, Mother. We're not on speaking terms just now, you know.

Mrs. M. Then I shall. Fortunately, I am on speaking terms with him—as he will find out! (A ring.) There he is, at last! Go, my poor darling, leave me to bring him to a sense of his disgraceful conduct. (Mrs. R. retires by the back drawing-room.) How shall I begin? Ah, poor JOHN'S phonograph! How lucky I remembered it! (Selecting a cylinder.) There, if anything can pierce his hard heart, that will!

[Winds up machine, which breaks into a merry marriage peal as JACK enters in evening dress.

Jack (sullenly). Now just look here, VIOLA—(recognising Mrs. M.) Hullo, the Mum!

Mrs. M. (raising her voice above the clamour). Mum no longer, Sir. Do you hear those bells?

Jack. Do I hear those bells? Am I deaf? The whole Parish can hear them, I should think!

Mrs. M. I don't care if they do. I want to touch your conscience, if I can, and I still hope—bad as you are—that when the voices of those bells—so long silent—rung in anticipation of such a very different future—fall upon your ear once more, they may—

Jack (with a sardonic laugh). "So long silent!" I like that. Sorry to disappoint you, my dear Mamma, but that phonograph, as a domestic stimulant, was played out long ago—it has played me out often enough! Perhaps you don't know it, but really VIOLA has rather overdone it. Whenever we have a tiff, she sets the "Voice from Eden" at me; if she chooses to consider herself ill-used, I am treated to a preserved echo of our marriage vows, and the Bishop's address; when she is in the sulks, I get the congratulations in the vestry; and if ever I grumble at the weekly bills, it's drowned in the "Wedding March!" As for your precious bells, I can't dine with a man at the Club without hearing the confounded things pealing out the moment I let myself in. That infernal phonograph, which you seem to fondly imagine will make me burst into tears, and live happy ever after, has driven me out of the house many a time when I was willing enough to stay at home; but to be put through one's wedding ceremony three times a week is enough to send any fellow to the Club, or out of his mind. I'd smash the d——d thing with pleasure, only it seems to afford VI some consolation. I can't say I find it soothing myself.

[Before Mr. MANDOLINE can think of a suitable reply, Mrs. R. enters from the inner room, where she has remained till now. She is carrying a small steel poker, which she silently places in the hand of her astonished husband.

Jack. Hullo! you here? What's this for?

[Staring blankly at the poker.

Mrs. R. (meekly). To—to smash the d——d thing with.

[The marriage peal ceases abruptly, as Mrs. MANDOLINE, comparatively reassured, discreetly leaves the couple to come to a better understanding without further assistance.

OUR BOOKING OFFICE.

The Gentlewoman, No. 1, has appeared. It gives, or rather sells, an overwhelming lot for the money, which is sixpence. Sixpenn'orth of all sorts. Plenty of readable information. Illustrations not the best feature in it. Crowds of advertisements. The menus, if carefully sustained, may prove very useful to those who "dinna ken." As to the type of The Gentlewoman, well, the first picture is of Her Imperial Majesty the QUEEN, and with this type of the Gentlewoman we shall all be satisfied, dicit BARONIUS DE BOOK-WORMS.

"What a sight o' Books!" cries the Baron, remembering the clever Parrot who uttered a similar exclamation at a Parrot Competition. First, here is Blossom Land and Fallen Leaves, by CLEMENT SCOTT, published by HUTCHINSON & CO., which is an interesting and useful book to those who are able to take a holiday in Cromer, and marvel at the sunset, and notice how "in the far distance a couple of lovers advance towards the fading light"—I'll be bound that deeply engaged couple didn't catch sight of the "chiel takin' notes"—and how did he know for certain they were a couple of lovers? Why not brother and sister? Why not husband and wife? Why not uncle and aunt?—but with an experienced eye the canny SCOTT made a pretty shrewd guess—and it is a pleasant companion, is this book, to those who cannot visit Cromer, or any of the other places mentioned in Blossom Land, and who reading it at home will only wish they could do so, and will promptly make arrangements for paying (the "paying" is the difficult part) a visit not only to Cromer but also to Caen, Etretat, Cabourg,—carefully noting C.S.'s account of his "cruise upon wheels," and his sensible remarks on Parisianising these otherwise tranquil resorts. From Havre to Hammersmith is a bit of a jump, but it is from a bustling port to a peaceful spot—"a Harbour of Refuge" at Nazareth, where the Baron sincerely trusts the good Little Sisters of the Poor are no longer Poor-rated £120 per annum, just by way of parochial encouragement, I suppose, to other charitable persons for relieving the parish "of an incubus of four hundred." The work of these self-sacrificing women cannot be over-rated in one sense, but in the parochial sense (if parochials have any) they can hardly be rated enough. Really a delightful book for all comers and goers.

"What have we here?" inquires the Baron—Seven Summers, An Eton Medley, by the Editors of the Parachute and Present Etonian. Now, Heaven forgive my ignorance, but I have never seen the Parachute nor the Present Etonian, so without prejudice I dip into this book, and am at once much interested and amused by a paper "On Getting Up." Not "getting up" linen, or "getting up lessons," but getting up in the morning, ever a hard-worker's hardest task. It will remind many a middle-aged Etonian of the days when he was very young, and early school was very early. "The Inner Man" is another amusing paper,