class="author">[He goes on playing the part, with the unexpected result of sending Miss Phillipson into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

Scene XI.—The Back Entrance at Wyvern. The Fly has just set down Phillipson and Undershell.

Tredwell (receiving Phillipson). Lady Maisie's maid, I presume? I'm the butler here—Mr. Tredwell. Your ladies arrived some time back. I'll take you to the housekeeper, who'll show you their rooms, and where yours is, and I hope you'll find everything comfortable. (In an undertone, indicating Undershell, who is awaiting recognition in the doorway.) Do you happen to know who it is with you?

Phillipson (in a whisper). I can't quite make him out he's so flighty in his talk. But he says he belongs to some Mews or other.

Tred. Oh, then I know who he is. We expect him right enough. He's a partner in a crack firm of Vets. We've sent for him special. I'd better see to him, if you don't mind finding your own way to the Housekeeper's Room, second door to the left, down that corridor. (Phillipson departs.) Good morning to you, Mr.—ah—Mr.——?

Undershell (coming forward). Mr. Undershell. Lady Culverin expects me, I believe.

Tred. Quite correct, Mr. Undershell, Sir. She do. Leastwise, I shouldn't say myself she'd require to see you—well, not before to-morrow morning—but you won't mind that, I daresay.

Und. (choking). Not mind that! Take me to her at once!

Tred. Couldn't take it on myself, Sir, really. There's no particular 'urry. I'll let her ladyship know you're 'ere; and if she wants you, she'll send for you; but, with a party staying in the 'ouse, and others dining with us to-night, it ain't likely as she'll have time for you till to-morrow.

Und. Oh then, whenever her ladyship should find leisure to recollect my existence, will you have the goodness to inform her that I have taken the liberty of returning to town by the next train?

Tred. Lor! Mr. Undershell, you aren't so pressed as all that, are you? I know my lady wouldn't like you to go without seeing you personally; no more wouldn't Sir Rupert. And I understood you was coming down for the Sunday!

Und. (furious). So did I—but not to be treated like this!

Tred. (soothingly). Why, you know what ladies are. And you couldn't see Deerfoot—not properly, to-night, either.

Und. I have seen enough of this place already. I intend to go back by the next train, I tell you.

Tred. But there ain't any next train up to-night—being a loop line—not to mention that I've sent the fly away, and they can't spare no one at the stables to drive you in. Come Sir, make the best of it. I've had my horders to see that you're made comfortable, and Mrs. Pomfret and me will expect the pleasure of your company at supper in the 'ousekeeper's room, 9.30 sharp. I'll send the Steward's Room Boy to show you to your room.

[He goes, leaving Undershell speechless.

Und. (almost foaming). The insolence of these cursed aristocrats! Lady Culverin will see me when she has time, forsooth! I am to be entertained in the servants' hall! This is how our upper classes honour poetry! I won't stay a single hour under their infernal roof. I'll walk. But where to? And how about my luggage?

[Phillipson returns.

Phill. Mr. Tredwell says you want to go already! It can't be true! Without even waiting for supper?

Und. (gloomily). Why should I wait for supper in this house?

Phill. Well, I shall be there; I don't know if that's any inducement.

[She looks down.

Und. (to himself). She is a singularly bewitching creature; and I'm starving. Why shouldn't I stay—if only to shame these Culverins? It will be an experience—a study in life. I can always go afterwards. I will stay. (Aloud.) You little know the sacrifice you ask of me, but enough; I give way. We shall meet—(with a gulp)—in the housekeeper's room!

Phill. (highly amused). You are a comical little man. You'll be the death of me if you go on like that!

[She flits away.

Und. (alone). I feel disposed to be the death of somebody! Oh, Lady Maisie Mull, to what a bathos have you lured your poet by your artless flattery—a banquet with your aunt's butler!

 Mamma (to Johnny, who has been given a Pear with Pills artfully concealed in it).
"Well, dear, have you finished your Pear?"

 Johnny. "Yes, Mamma, all but the Seeds!"

A BETTING MAN ON CRICKET.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"There are, methinks," quoth the Baron, "two or three novels—one certainly I can call to mind—wherein the interior domestic life of Jews strict in the observance of their ancient and most touching religious rites and ceremonies is more amply, as well as more minutely, described than in Mr. Farjeon's Aaron the Jew, which, be it my pleasing duty to testify, is one of the best of this prolific author's works; a simple, touching story, the interest being well kept up, as of course the "interest" should be when dealing with the true history of one who commenced as a pawnbroker." As to the rites above mentioned, no special or intimate personal experience is shown to be possessed by the author, who could very easily have obtained his materials from an interesting work entitled, as I fancy, The Jew at Home, which has, the Baron regrets to say, disappeared from its shelf in the Baron's