if there are any letters. (Goes to box.) Hallo! someone's been at the lock with a hairpin—it's one of your hairpins! [Holding it out to her.

Nora (quickly). Not mine—one of BOB's, or IVAR's—they both wear hairpins!

Helmer (turning over letters absently). You must break them of it—bad habit! What a lot o' lettersh! double usual quantity. (Opens KROGSTAD's.) By Jove! (Reads it and falls back completely sobered.) What have you got to say to this?

Nora (crying aloud.) You shan't save me—let me go! I won't be saved!

Helmer. Save you, indeed! Who's going to save Me? You miserable little criminal. (Annoyed.) Ugh—ugh!

Nora (with hardening expression). Indeed, TORVALD, your singing-bird acted for the best!

Helmer. Singing-bird! Your father was a rook—and you take after him. Heredity again! You have utterly destroyed my happiness. (Walks round several times.) Just as I was beginning to get on, too!

Nora. I have—but I will go away and jump into the water.

Helmer. What good will that do me? People will say I had a hand in this business (bitterly). If you must forge, you might at least put your dates in correctly! But you never had any principle! (A ring.) The front-door bell! (A fat letter is seen to fall into the box; HELMER takes it, opens it, sees enclosure, and embraces NORA.) KROGSTAD won't split. See, he returns the forged I.O.U.! Oh, my poor little lark, what you must have gone through! Come under my wing, my little scared song-bird.... Eh? you won't! Why, what's the matter now?

Nora (with cold calm). I have wings of my own, thank you, TORVALD, and I mean to use them!

Helmer. What—leave your pretty cage, and (pathetically) the old cock bird, and the poor little innocent eggs!

Nora. Exactly. Sit down, and we will talk it over first. (Slowly.) Has it ever struck you that this is the first time you and I have ever talked seriously together about serious things?

Helmer. Come, I do like that! How on earth could we talk about serious things when your mouth was always full of macaroons?

Nora (shakes her head). Ah, TORVALD, the mouth of a mother of a family should have more solemn things in it than macaroons! I see that now, too late. No, you have wronged me. So did Papa. Both of you called me a doll, and a squirrel, and a lark! You might have made something of me—and instead of that, you went and made too much of me—oh, you did!

Helmer. Well, you didn't seem to object to it, and really I don't exactly see what it is you do want!

Nora. No more do I—that is what I have got to find out. If I had been properly educated, I should have known better than to date poor Papa's signature three days after he died. Now I must educate myself. I have to gain experience, and get clear about religion, and law, and things, and whether Society is right or I am—and I must go away and never come back any more till I am educated!

Helmer. Then you may be away some little time? And what's to become of me and the eggs meanwhile?

Nora. That, TORVALD, is entirely your own affair. I have a higher duty than that towards you and the eggs. (Looking solemnly upward.) I mean my duty towards Myself!

Helmer. And all this because—in a momentary annoyance at finding myself in the power of a discharged Cashier who calls me "I say TORVALD," I expressed myself with ultra-Gilbertian frankness! You talk like a silly child!

Nora. Because my eyes are opened, and I see my position with the eyes of IBSEN. I must go away at once, and begin to educate myself.

Helmer. May I ask how you are going to set about it?

Nora. Certainly. I shall begin—yes, I shall begin with a course of the Norwegian theatres. If that doesn't take the frivolity out of me, I don't really know what will! [She gets her bonnet and ties it tightly.

Helmer. Then you are really going? And you'll never think about me and the eggs any more! Oh, NORA!

Nora. Indeed, I shall, occasionally—as strangers. (She puts on a shawl sadly, and fetches her dressing-bag.) If I ever do come back, the greatest miracle of all will have to happen. Good-bye! [She goes out through the hall; the front-door is heard to bang loudly.

Helmer (sinking on a chair). The room empty? Then she must be gone! Yes, my little lark has flown! (The dull sound of an unskilled latchkey is heard trying the lock; presently the door opens, and Nora, with a somewhat foolish expression, reappears.) What? back already! Then you are educated?

Nora (puts down dressing-bag). No, TORVALD, not yet. Only, you see, I found I had only threepence-halfpenny in my purse, and the Norwegian theatres are all closed at this hour—and so I thought I wouldn't leave the cage till to-morrow—after breakfast.

Helmer (as if to himself). The greatest miracle of all has happened. My little bird is not in the bush just yet!

[NORA takes down a showily bound dictionary from the shelf and begins her education; HELMER fetches a bag of macaroons, sits near her, and tenders one humbly. A pause. NORA repulses it, proudly. He offers it again. She snatches at it suddenly, still without looking at him, and nibbles it thoughtfully as Curtain falls.

MODERN TYPES.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Type Writer.)

No. XXIV.—THE GIVER OF PARTIES.

It may be that "Party," in the sense of a hospitable entertainment, is an obsolete word, and that those who speak of "giving a party" prove themselves, by the mere expression, to be fogeys whom the rushing stream of London amusements has long since thrown up on the sandy bank of middle age, there to grow dull and forget that their legs were ever apt for the waltz, or their digestions able to cope with lobster mayonnaise at 2 A.M. Yet, though he who thus speaks may not be as smart as a swell, or as much up to date as a church-parade-goer, the expression will serve, for it indicates comprehensively enough every variety of entertainment known to the London Season—the dance, the dinner, the reception, the music at home, the tea-party, and the theatre-party, for all these in her benevolence does the Giver of Parties offer to us, and all these does she find the world of London eager to accept. Now it would seem, one would imagine, to be the easiest thing in the world, if only the money be not wanting, to give a party. A hostess, so someone may say, has but to invite her friends, to light her rooms, to spread her tables, to set the champagne flowing, to order an awning, and to hire music and a linkman, and the thing is done. The result of all this will no doubt be a party—of a sort, but of a sort far different, however gorgeous it may be, from the splendid and widely-advertised gatherings which the genuine Giver of Parties organises. For in the one variety it is just possible that enjoyment may be one of the main objects sought and attained; in the latter it is certain that enjoyment, though it is not always absent, must yield the precedence to social success and promotion in the scale of Society.