Besides—(more archly still)—I don't even know your handwriting.

St. Y. I write a very nice hand. You shall see it some day.

Impatient Member of Public. Will you kindly tell me if this letter will go for a penny? (Pathetically.) I've been waiting some time!

Miss Minks (in injured tone). I can't possibly attend to more than one at a time! (To Stout Youth.) You'll get me into trouble, you see, if you're so faddy about choosing. You are so silly over it!

St. Y. I daresay you'll think it rather odd, but I don't seem able to make up my mind. (Insinuatingly.) Suppose you choose for me?

Miss Minks. Perhaps you won't like what I choose?

St. Y. Don't make yourself at all uneasy about that.

Miss Minks (coquettishly). I don't. There's a packet of thick ones for you. Now, give me eightpence, and go away.

St. Y. The idea of expecting a fellow to have eight-pence about him!

Another Impatient Member of Public. Dozen penny stamps, Miss, please.

Miss Minks. If you'll kindly wait till I have finished with this gentleman!

St. Y. (in undertone). You have finished with this gentleman—done for him completely!

Miss Minks. Do you think I don't know better than to believe such nonsense! I shall get into such a row for keeping these people waiting—and it's all your fault. [Plaintively.

St. Y. Poor little girl—they do work you awfully hard! I'll go (sentimentally), but I shall keep these post-cards always!

Miss Redtape (reading a telegram). Chipperfield Lodge, Chipperfield, near Uxbridge. Can't send that, Sir.

Author of Message. Can't send it? Nonsense! Why?

Miss R. (who suffers from a fixed idea; with deliberate precision). Because it is insufficiently addressed.

A. of M. (much astonished). Where on earth is the insufficiency?

Miss R. "Near Uxbridge"—you must alter that before I can send it.

A. of M. That's the address I was given; I've no reason to believe it wants adding to, and I can't add anything!

Miss R. Then I can't send it.

[A. of M. remonstrates in vain, pleads, and urges—Miss Rutina remains obdurate, and he has to retire, helpless.

Miss Minks (gabbling out form handed in by anxious-looking Lady). "For love of Heaven do nothing of kind. Come to me at once, Tiny"—you want that to go as it is?

Anx. Lady. Yes—yes—there's no irregularity in it, is there?

Miss Minks (severely). You know that better than I can tell you. Limmer's? Limmer's what?

Anx. Lady. Limmer's Hotel.

Miss Minks. Then that will be another halfpenny—it will be sent off in its proper turn.

Enter a German Servant.

German Serv. (to Miss R.) I vas to gif you zis delegram, blease.

Miss R. Very well—you can leave it. Stop—who's it addressed to? (With much decision.) This won't do!

Germ. Serv. I vas to gif it to you. Is it not for ze Lord Meyer?

Miss R. Lord Mayor, yes, I see that well enough, but where?

Germ. Serv. I subbose vere he dwell at—I do not know how you gall it—on ze oondergroundt I zink it is.

Miss R. Don't know any Lord Mayor who lives underground—can't take it like this.

Officious Bystander. He means the Mansion House. I should think that would find the Lord Mayor without much difficulty, wouldn't it?

Miss R. (chillingly). Can't say, I'm sure. (To Servant.) Go back and ask your Master if he means Mansion House, to say so.

Germ. S. (blankly). He is goned avay—he vill not be pack undil efening.

Miss R. Then ask him, then.

Germ. S. I zink it vas imbortant—eef you gould dry at ze Mansions haus, berhaps——?

Miss R. I've no authority to put in anything beyond what's given me to send—if your Master will give an insufficient address, it's not my fault, and you can tell him so.

Off. Bystander (to Miss R.) But hang it all! There's only one Lord Mayor, in London at all events!

Miss R. How do I know it's for London at all?

Bystander. I should have thought you might have risked it!

Miss R. I can't help what you would have thought, Sir; I know my own business. (To Germ. S.) I've given you my answer.

[Exit German Servant resignedly, his idea of a Lord Mayor somewhat lowered; Miss Redtape stamps letters with the serenity of conscious rectitude. Scene closes in.

Arms and the (Police) Man.

Visiting Liszt.—The latest and one of the most interesting papers on this erratic Abbé, is to be found in the Month for July. Tolle, lege. Also see London Society for The Hired Baby. The story is pathetic with here and there a vein of cynical humour. As for the moral——well, you can't expect much of a moral from a hired baby.

A Dark Look-Out.

"There is no public career in India for the native of India."—Echo.

Cucumber Chronicles, by Ashby Sterry. Light reading, easily carried, and not at all cu-cumbersome. Nothing Melon-choly about them. Can't say any more because it's so hot, and we've only just cut the cucumber. Of course you must be in a cucumber frame of mind to thoroughly enjoy them.

DEVELOPMENT OF SPECIES UNDER CIVILISATION.

'Arriet. "Ow, 'arry! I s'y! H'yn't 'e a Ugly Cowve!"

NEWTON AND THE APPLE.