suppressed wrath.) Forgive me—but, as Miss Seaton shows no desire whatever to renew my acquaintance, I don't see that we need discuss my position, or hers either. And I must decline to do so.

Mrs. Tid. (crimsoning.) Oh, very well. I am not accustomed to be told what subjects I am to discuss at my own table, but (scathingly) no doubt your position here gives you the right to be independent—ahoo!

Lord Strath. I venture to think so. (To himself.) Can't make this woman out—is she trying to be rude, or what?

Uncle Gab. Hullo, your Lordship's got no Champagne! How's that? It's all right—"Fizzler, '84," my Lord!

Lord Strath. I daresay—but the fact is, I am strictly forbidden to touch it.

Uncle Gab. Pooh!—if your Lordship will excuse the remark—this won't do you any harm—comes out of my own cellar, so I ought to know. (To Seakale.) Here, you, fill his Lordship's glass, d'ye hear?

Mrs. Tid. (in a rapid whisper.) Don't make a fuss—you can take one glass as he wishes it!

Lord Strath. (to himself.) Can I though? If she imagines I'm going to poison myself to please her uncle! (Seakale gives him half a glass, after receiving a signal from Mrs. T.) I suppose I must just——(After tasting.) Why it's dry! Then why the deuce was I cautioned not to——?

Uncle Gab. That's a fine wine, isn't it, my Lord? Not much of that in the market nowadays, I can tell you!

Lord Strath. (to himself.) Precious little here. (Aloud.) So I should imagine, Sir.

Uncle Gab. Your Lordship mustn't pass this entrée. My niece's cook knows her business, I will say that for her.

Lord Strath. (as he helps himself.) I have already discovered that she is an artist.

Mrs. Tid. (in displeased surprise.) Then you know my cook too? An artist? and she seems such a respectable person! Pray what sort of pictures does she paint?

Lord Strath. Pictures? Oh, really I don't know—potboilers probably.

[Mrs. Tid. glares at him suspiciously.

Conversational Scraps. And when I got into the hall and saw them all sitting in a row with their faces blacked, I said "I'm sure they can't be the Young Men's Christian Association!"... Hysteria? my poor dear wife is a dreadful sufferer from it—I've known her unable to sleep at all except with one foot curled round her neck!... (&c. &c.)

Lord Strath. (to himself.) There's no doubt about it—this woman is trying to snub me—hardly brings herself to talk at all—and then she's beastly rude! What did she ask me here for if she can't be civil! If she wasn't my hostess—I'll try her once more, she may know something about antiquities—(Aloud.) I suppose Mr. Cartouche keeps his collection in a separate room? I was told he has some hunting scarabs of the Amenhoteps that I am very curious to see.

Mrs. Tid. (stiffly). Mr. Cartouche may keep all sorts of disagreeable pets, for anything I know to the contrary.

Lord Strath. (to himself, in amazement). Pets! I'm hanged if I let myself be snubbed like this! (Aloud.) I'm afraid you have very little sympathy with his tastes?

Mrs. Tid. Sympathy, indeed! I don't even know if he has any tastes. I am not in the habit of troubling myself about my next-door neighbour's affairs.

Lord Strath. (with a gasp). Your next-door——! (He pulls himself together.) To be sure—of course not—stupid of me to ask! (To himself.) Good Heavens!—these aren't the Cartouches! I'm at the wrong dinner-party—and this awful woman thinks I've done it on purpose! No wonder she's so confoundedly uncivil!... And Marjory knows it, too, and won't speak to me! Perhaps they all know it.... What on earth am I to do?... I feel such a fool!

Miss Seaton (to herself). How perfectly ghastly Douglas is looking! Didn't he really know the Cartouches lived next door?... Then—oh, what an idiot I've been! It's a mistake—he doesn't come from Blankley's at all! I must speak to him—I must tell him how——no, I can't—I forgot how horrid I've been to him! I should have to tell him I believed that—and I'd rather die! No, it's too late—it's too late now!

[Miss Seaton and Lord Strathsporran sit regarding the tablecloth with downcast eyes, and expressions of the deepest gloom and confusion.

(End of Scene V.)

Rhyme by a Rad.

[The question where the Liberal-Unionists shall sit has excited some discussion.]

"Railway Rates."—Whatever question there may be on this subject, there can be none whatever as to the rates at which "The Bournemouth Express," "The Granville L. C. & D.," and "The Flying Dutchman," severally travel. Such rates are first rate.

Con. for the Consolation of the many Sufferers from a current Catch-word.—Q. What is the only thing that is really "up-to-date"?—A. A palm-tree.

Mem. for Mr. Vivian and the Royalists.—The Last of the Stuarts,—Stuart Knill. There can be none after Nil.

DRAMATIC WITHOUT BEING STAGEY.

The plan, successfully inaugurated, and, within the last fortnight, still more successfully carried out by Sir Druriolanus Operaticus Balmascus Pantomimicus, of giving what may be called "unstagey representations" of popular Operas—that is, popular Operas sung and acted without the aid of scenes or properties (though "substitutes" may be permitted, as, for example, a chair with four legs complete would represent a horse, and a round table a tower); the singers, however, being in costume, may work an extensive "Transformation" Scene (which is quite in Sir Drurio's line) in the Dramatic and Operatic world, and may effect such a change as will save thousands to a Manager. Why not go a step further? Why have "costumes," or even "hand-properties"? Why not leave everything, except the perfection of the singing and the dramatic action, to the imagination of the audience? The prices of admission would be proportionately lowered, and the numbers admitted, in all probability, would be trebled, on which hypothesis a calculation may be based. What an exercise it would be for the imagination of the audience, were the Statue Scene from Don Giovanni to be given with the Basso Profondo in evening dress, who represents the Stony Commendatore, seated astride a plank resting on tressels placed on a table