PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 107.
September 1, 1894.

"CONTRIBUTIONS THANKFULLY RECEIVED."

Lardy-Dardy Swell (who is uncertain as to the age of Ingénue he is addressing). "You're going to give a Ball. Will you permit me to send you a Bouquet? And is there anything else you would like?"

Ingénue. "O, thanks! The Bouquet would be delightful! and"—(hesitating, then after some consideration)—"I'm sure Mamma would like the Ices and Sponge Cakes!"

THE TALE OF TWO TELEGRAMS.

ANOTHER DOLLY DIALOGUE.

(By St. Anthony Hope Carter.)

The redeeming feature of the morning batch of letters was a short note from Lady Mickleham. Her ladyship (and Archie) had come back to town, and the note was to say that I might call, in fact that I was to call, that afternoon. It so happened that I had two engagements, which seemed to make that impossible, but I spent a shilling in telegrams, and at 4.30 (the hour Dolly had named) was duly ringing at the Mickleham town mansion.

"I'm delighted you were able to come," was Dolly's greeting.

"I wasn't able," I said; "but I've no doubt that what I said in the two telegrams which brought me here will be put down to your account."

"No one expects truth in a telegram. The Post-Office people themselves wouldn't like it."

Dolly was certainly looking at her very best. Her dimples (everybody has heard of Dolly's Dimples—or is it Dolly Dimple; but after all it doesn't matter) were as delightful as ever. I was just hesitating as to my next move in the Dialogue, which I badly wanted, for I had promised my editor one by the middle of next week. The choice lay between the dimples and a remark that life was, after all, only one prolonged telegram. Just at that moment I noticed for the first time that we were not alone.

Now that was distinctly exasperating, and an unwarrantable breach of an implied contract.

"Two's company," I said, in a tone of voice that was meant to indicate something of what I felt.

"So's three," said Dolly, laughing, "if the third doesn't count."

"Quod est demonstrandum."

"Well, it's like this. I observed that you've already published twenty or so 'Dolly Dialogues.'" (The dimples at this period were absolutely bewitching, but I controlled myself.) "So it occurred to me that it was my turn to earn an honest penny. Allow me to introduce you. Mr. Brown, Mr. Carter—Mr. Carter, Mr. Brown."

I murmured that any friend of Lady Mickleham's was a friend of mine, whereat Mr. Brown smiled affably and handed me his card, from which I gathered that he was a shorthand writer at some address in Chancery Lane. Then I understood it all. I had exploited Dolly. Dolly was now engaged in the process of exploiting me.

"I hope," I observed rather icily, "that you will choose a respectable paper."

"You don't mean that."

"Perhaps not. But if we are to have a Dialogue, perhaps we might begin. I have an engagement at six."

"Telegraph, and put the contents down to my account."

I noticed now that Dolly had a pile of papers on her table, and that she was playing with a blue pencil.

"Yes, Lady Mickleham," I said, in the provisional way in which judges indicate to counsel that they are ready to proceed.

"Well, I've been reading some of the Press Notices of the Dialogues, Mr. Carter."

I trembled. I remembered some of the things that had been said about Dolly and myself, which hardly lent themselves, it appeared to me, to this third party procedure.

"I thought," pursued Dolly, "we might spend the time in discussing the critics."

"I shall be delighted, if in doing that we shall dismiss the reporter."

"Have you seen this? It's from a Scotch paper—Scottish? you suggest—well, Scottish. 'The sketches are both lively and elegant, and their lightness is just what people want in the warm weather.'"

"It's a satisfaction to think that even our little breezes are a source of cool comfort to our fellow-creatures."

"Here's another criticism. 'It's a book which tempts the reader——'"

"It must have been something you said."

"'——a book which tempts the reader to peruse from end to end when once he picks it up.'"

"'Read at a Sitting: A Study in Colour.'"

"Please, Mr. Brown, don't take that down."

"Thank you, Lady Mickleham," said I. "Litera scripta manet."

"You are not the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. Carter, and you must break yourself of the habit."

"The next cutting?"

"The next says, 'For Mr. Carter, the hero or reporter——'"

"It's a calumny. I don't know a single shorthand symbol."

"Let me go on. 'Reporter of these polite conversations, we confess we have no particular liking.'"

"If you assure me you did not write this yourself, Lady Mickleham, I care not who did."

"That, Mr. Brown," said Dolly, in a most becoming frown, "must on no account go down."

"When you have finished intimidating the Press, perhaps you will finish the extract."

"'His cynicism,'" she read, "'is too strained to commend him to ordinary mortals——'"

"No one would ever accuse you of being in that category."

"'——but his wit is undeniable, and his impudence delicious.' Well, Mr. Carter?"

"I should like the extract concluded." I knew the next sentence commenced—"As for Dolly, Lady Mickleham, she outdoes all the revolted daughters of feminine fiction."

Then an annoying thing happened. Archie's voice was heard, saying, "Dolly, haven't you finished that Dialogue yet? We ought to dress for dinner. It'll take us an hour to drive there."

So it had been all arranged, and Archie knew for what I had been summoned.

Yet there are compensations. Dolly sent the Dialogue to the only paper which I happen to edit. I regretfully declined it. But the fact that she sent it may possibly explain why I have found it so easy to give this account of what happened on that afternoon when I sent the two telegrams.

The Cry of Chaos.