Lucerne.—Lovely; but comfort takes a back seat if the Schweitzerhoff is full.

Madrid.—Plenty of pictures, but cholera in the neighbourhood.

Naples.—Famous Bay never off, but scarcely the place to face an epidemic.

Ouchy.—Beau Rivage beyond all praise, but environs uninteresting.

Paris.—Always pleasant—save in August.

Quebec.—Possibly attractive to the wildly adventurous, but scarcely worthy of a jaunt across the Atlantic.

Rome.—The City of the Popes and the Cæsars, but not to be thought of before the early winter.

St. Malo.—Quaint old Breton port, but journey from Southampton frequently dangerous, and always disagreeable.

Turin.—Typical Italian town; but why go here when other places are equally accessible?

Utrecht.—Suggestive of cheap velvet, but suggestive of nothing else.

Vevey.—Pleasantly situated, but triste to the last degree.

Wiesbaden.—Kept its popularity, in spite of its loss of roulette and trente et quarante; but Baden-Baden is preferable.

X les Bains.—Beautiful scenery, but population chiefly invalids.

Zurich.—Might do worse than go there; but, on the other hand, why not stay at home?

AN OBJECT OF COMPASSION.

PITY AN UNFORTUNATE MAN, DETAINED IN LONDON BY UNINTERESTING CIRCUMSTANCES OVER WHICH HE HAS NO CONTROL, WHOSE FAMILY ARE ALL OUT OF TOWN, WHOSE ESTABLISHMENT IS REPRESENTED BY A CARETAKER, AND WHOSE CLUB IS CLOSED FOR ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS.

VOCES POPULI.

COCKNEY COQUETRY: A STUDY IN REGENT'S PARK.

SCENE—Near the Band-Stand. TIME—7 P.M. on a Sunday in August.

CHARACTERS.

Polly (about 22; a tall brunette, of the respectable lower middle-class, with a flow of light badinage, and a taste for tormenting.)

Flo (18; her friend; shorter, somewhat less pronounced in manner; rather pretty, simply and tastefully dressed; milliner or bonnet-maker's apprentice.)

Mr. Ernest Hawkins (otherwise known as "ERNIE 'ORKINS"; 19 or 20; short, sallow, spectacled; draper's assistant; a respectable and industrious young fellow, who chooses to pass in his hours of ease as a blasé misogynist).

Alfred (his friend; shorter and sallower; a person with a talent for silence, which he cultivates assiduously).

POLLY and FLO are seated upon chairs by the path, watching the crowd promenading around the enclosure where the Band is playing.

Polly (to FLO). There's ERNIE 'ORKINS;—he doesn't see us yet. 'Ullo, ERNIE, come 'ere and talk to us, won't you?

Flo. Don't, POLLY. I'm sure I don't want to talk to him!

Polly. Now you know you do, FLO,—more than I do, if the truth was known. It's all on your account I called out to him.

Mr. Hawkins (coming up). 'Ullo! so you're 'ere, are you?

[Stands in front of their chairs in an easy attitude. His friend looks on with an admiring grin in the background, unintroduced, but quite happy and contented.

Polly. Ah, we're 'ere all right enough. 'Ow did you get out?

Mr. H. (his dignity slightly ruffled). 'Ow did I get out? I'm not in the 'abit of working Sundays if I know it.

Polly. Oh, I thought p'raps she wouldn't let you come out without 'er. (Mr. H. disdains to notice this insinuation.) Why, how you are blushing up, FLO! She looks quite nice when she blushes, don't she?

Mr. H. (who is of the same opinion, but considers it beneath him to betray his sentiments). Can't say, I'm sure; I ain't a judge of blushing myself. I've forgotten how it's done.

Polly. Ah! I dessay you found it convenient to forget. (A pause. Mr. H. smiles in well-pleased acknowledgment of this tribute to his brazen demeanour.) Did ARTHUR send you a telegraph?—he sent FLO one. [This is added with a significance intended to excite Mr. H.'s jealousy.

Mr. H. (unperturbed). No; he telegraphed to father, though. He's gettin' on well over at Melbun, ain't he? They think a lot of him out there. And now gettin' his name in the paper, too, like that, why—

Flo. That'll do him a lot of good, 'aving his name in the paper, won't it?

Mr. H. Oh, ARTHUR's gettin' on fine. Have you read the letters he's sent over? No? Well, you come in to-morrow evening and have a look at 'em. Look sharp, or they'll be lent out again; they've been the reg'lar round, I can tell you. I shall write and blow 'im up, though, for not sending me a telegraft, too.

Polly. You! 'Oo are you? You're on'y his brother, you are. It's different, his sending one to FLO.

Mr. H. (not altogether relishing this last suggestion). Ah, well, I dessay I shall go out there myself, some day.

[Looks at Miss FLO, to see how she likes that.

Flo. Yes, you'd better. It would make you quite a man, wouldn't it? [Both girls titter.

Mr. H. (nettled). 'Ere, I say, I'm off. Good-bye! Come on, ALF!

[Fausse sortie.

Polly. No, don't go away yet. Shall you take 'er out with you, ERNIE, eh?

Mr. H. What 'er? I don't know any 'er.

Polly (archly). Oh, you think we 'aven't 'eard. 'Er where you live now. We know all about it!

Mr. H. Then you know more than what I do. There's nothing between me and anybody where I live. But I'm going out to Ostralia, though. I've saved up 'alf of what I want already.

Polly (banteringly). You are a good boy. Save up enough for me too!

Mr. H. (surveying her with frank disparagement). You? Oh, lor! Not if I know it!

Flo (with an exaggerated sigh). Oh dear, I wish I was over there. They say they're advertising for maidservants—fifteen shillings a week, and the washing put out. I'd marry a prince or a lord duke, perhaps, when I got there. ARTHUR sent me a fashion-book.

Mr. H. So he sent me one, too. It was the Autumn fashions. They get their Autumn in the Spring out there, you know, and their Christmas Day comes in the middle of July. Seems rum, doesn't it?

Flo. He sent me his photo, too. He has improved.

Polly. You go out there, ERNIE, and p'raps you'll improve. [FLO giggles.

Mr. H. (hurt). There, that's enough—good-bye.

[Fausse sortie No. 2.

Polly (persuasively). 'Ere, stop! I want to speak to you. Is your girl here?

Mr. H. (glad of this opportunity). My girl? I ain't got no girl. I don't believe in 'em—a lot of—

Polly (interrupting). A lot of what? Go on—don't mind us.

Mr. H. It don't matter. I know what they are.

Polly. But you like Miss PINKNEY, though,—at the shop in Queen's Road,—you know.

Mr. H. (by way of proclaiming his indifference). Miss PINKNEY? She ought to be Mrs.