myself as a "spree."

Charles. No more should I, Aunt, not by any means.

Mrs. T. I never met this Mrs. Merridew, but I was favourably impressed by the way she wrote. A very sensible letter.

Alth. (to herself). Except the postscript. But I didn't like to show Mamma that!

Charles. But you'll go to a theatre or two, or a dance, or something, while you're with her, won't you?

[Althea tries to signal to him to be silent.

Mrs. T. Charles, you forget where you are. A daughter of ours set foot in a playhouse! Surely you know your Uncle's objection to anything in the nature of a theatrical entertainment? Did he not write and threaten to resign the Vice-Presidency of the Lower Clapham Athenæum at the mere hint of a performance of scenes from some play by that dissolute writer Sheridan—even without costumes and scenery? His protest was most admirably worded. I remember I drafted it myself.

Mr. T. (with some complacency). Yes, yes, I've always been extremely firm on that subject, and also on the dangers of dancing—indeed, I have almost succeeded in putting an entire stop to the children dancing to piano-organs in the streets of this neighbourhood—a most reprehensible custom!

Mrs. T. Yes, Theophilius, and you might have stopped it long before you did, if you had taken my suggestion earlier. I hope I am not to infer, from your manner, that you are yourself addicted to these so-called pleasures, Charles?

Charles. Dancing in the street to a piano-organ, Aunt? Never did such a thing in my life!

Mrs. T. That was not my meaning, Charles, as you very well know. I hope you employ your evenings in improving your knowledge of your profession. I should be sorry to think you frequented theatres.

Charles (demurely). Theatres? rather not, Aunt, never go near 'em. (To himself.) Catch me going where I can't smoke! (Aloud.) You see, when a fellow has lodgings in a nice cheerful street in Bloomsbury, it isn't likely he'd want to turn out of an evening after sticking hard at the office all day!

Mrs. T. I am glad to hear you say so, Charles. It is quite a mistake for a young man to think he cannot do without amusement. Your Uncle never thought of amusing himself when he was young—or our married life would not be what it is. And look at Mr. Curphew, who is coming in to supper to-night, see how hard he works—up to town every afternoon, and not back till long after midnight.

[The bell rings.

Charles. Rather queer hours to work, Aunt. Are you sure he doesn't go up just to read the paper?

Althea (with a slight flush). He goes up to write it, Charles. Mr. Curphew is on the press, and has taken rooms here for the air of the Common. And—and he is very clever, and works very hard indeed; you can see that from his looks.

Phœbe (announcing). Mr. Curphew.

[A tall slim young man enters, with a pale, smooth-shaven face, and rather melancholy eyes, which light up as he greets Althea.

Mrs. T. How do you do, Mr. Curphew? You are a little late—but some services last longer than others. Oh, Phœbe, now I think of it, just bring me a paper you will find in one of the pockets of Mr. Collimore's overcoat; it's hanging up in the hall—the drab one with grey velvet on the collar. (Phœbe goes.) It's a circular, Mr. Curphew, which was given out in our Church this evening, and may interest you to see.

Phœbe (returning). If you please, m'm, this is the only paper I could find.

Mrs. T. (taking it from the salver, without looking at it). Quite right, Phœbe—we shall be ready for supper when I ring. (When Phœbe has gone.) I can't see anything without my——Althea, just go and see if I have left my spectacle-case in my room, my dear. It's astonishing how they're always getting mislaid, and I'm so helpless without them. (Althea goes.) Mr. Curphew, perhaps you will read this aloud for me; I want my husband to hear.

Curphew (suppressing a slight start). May I ask if they distribute papers of this sort at your Church—and—and why you think it is likely to interest me in particular? (To himself.) Wonder if this can be a trap!

Mrs. T. (taking back the document, and holding it close to her nose). Gracious goodness! this isn't the—— Charles, perhaps you will explain how you come to have a paper in your pocket covered with pictures of females in shamelessly short skirts?

Charles (to himself). In for a pie-jaw this time! What an owl that girl is! (Aloud.) It's only a programme, Aunt; thing they give you at a music-hall, you know.

Mrs. T. (in an awful voice). Only a programme! Pa, tell this unhappy boy your opinion of his conduct!

Mr. T. (rising magisterially). Charles, am I to understand that a nephew of mine allows himself to be seen in a disreputable resort such as——

Charles. Oh come, Uncle, you can't know much about the Eldorado, if——

Mr. T. (with a bound). The Eldorado. How dare you bring that name up here, Sir? What do you mean by it?

Charles (surprised). Why, you must have heard of it—it's one of the leading music-halls.

Mr. T. (gasping). A music-hall? the Eldorado! (To himself.) If it should turn out to be—but no, my nerves are upset, it can't be—and yet—what am I to say to him?

[He falls back into his chair with a groan.

Mrs. T. Charles, if you can stand there and feel no shame when you see how disturbed and disgusted even Mr. Curphew looks, and the agitated state to which you have reduced your poor Uncle, you must indeed be hardened!

[Curphew has considerately walked to the window; Mr. Toovey endeavours to collect his faculties; Charles looks from one to the other in bewilderment.

End of Scene I.

SOMETHING WRONG SOMEWHERE.

September 1. Partridge Shooting.

Old Twentystun (reviewing his symptoms). "Dear me! Mos' 'straordinary, this shortness o' breath. Le' me see—'Good plain food and best quality o' drink,' Doctor said. Tha 's all right—never stinted myself for either. 'Never overdo yourself,' says he. Haven't. Never walked a step if I could help it since last Season. 'Go to bed early.' So I have, and never hurried up either. Mos' 'straordinary! Mos' 'straordinary!"

[Goes home to consult Doctor again.

YORKSHIRE VICTOR.