there's someone knocking at the door. "Pardon, monsieur, avez-vous reçu votre linge?" "Mais, oui, je l'ai reçu hier." "Pardon, monsieur, il y a des faux-cols." "Non, je les ai reçus tous." "Mais, monsieur——" "Mais qu'est-ce que vous me chantez là? Laissez-moi tranquille." "Mais, monsieur, le monsieur en face m'a dit que monsieur a reçu des faux-cols que monsieur——" Confound the collars! Get up, let in the garçon, examine my collars and the collars of the monsieur en face, who is just packing up, rectify the mistake of the washerwoman, and am again alone. Now is it worth going to sleep or not? Will try once more.

What's that? "Marie!" It's someone shouting outside my door. How fond they are of shouting outside my door! "Marie! De l'eau chaude." I hope she won't think it's for me, or she'll wake me up if at last I get a chance of dropping off. Then silence. Positively, absolute silence. The coughing Frenchman must have been suffocated; the Germans—no, nothing could stop the Germans from talking, only they have gone out of hearing. And the femme de chambre has hurried off to fetch that hot water for somebody, and the garçon is not banging his broom about in this couloir, and there is no baggage coming or going, and no door crashing; and, in the midst of profound peace, I think drowsily of quiet country afternoons, when one hears only the humming of the bees, and the whispering of the aspens, and then, and then——Hullo! What's up now? There's someone else knocking. My last chance gone. My head is aching more than ever. "Eh bien?" "C'est l'eau chaude que vous avez commandée, Monsieur."

THE ADVERTISEMENT FIEND.

(Written in the Train by an Irate Traveller.)

["The English landscape is being transformed into a dumping-ground for catchpenny eyesores."—See the "Nineteenth Century" for June.]

[Terminus. Exit, fuming.

SOCIETY'S NEXT CRAZE.

(As foreseen by Mr. Punch's Second-sighted Clairvoyant.)

It is the summer of 1896—or possibly '97. The scene is a road skirting Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's leaders have recently discovered and appointed as the rendez-vous for the Season, and where it is now the correct thing for all really smart people to indulge, between certain prescribed hours, in sports and pastimes that have hitherto been more characteristic of the masses than the classes. The only permissible mount now is the donkey, which must be ridden close to the tail, and referred to as a "moke." A crowd of well-turned-out spectators arrives from the West End every morning about eleven to watch the brilliant parade of "Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist will already have decided to call them). Some drive slowly up and down on coster-barrows, attended by cockaded and disgusted grooms. About twelve, they break up into light luncheon parties; after which they play democratic games for half an hour or so, and drive home on drags.

Mr. Woodby-Innett (to the Donkey Proprietor). Kept a moke for me? I told you I should be wantin' one every mornin' now.

The Donkey Proprietor (after consulting engagement-book). I've not got it down on my list, Sir. Very sorry, but the Countess of Cumberback has just booked the last for the 'ole of this week. Might let you 'ave one by-and-by, if Sir Hascot Goodwood brings his in punctual, but I can't promise it.

Mr. Woodby-Inn. That's no good; no point in ridin' after the right time. (To himself, as he turns away.) Nuisance! Not that I'm so keen about a moke. Not a patch on a bike!—though it don't do to say so. Only if I'd known this, I'd have turned up in a tall hat and frock coat; and then I could have taken a turn on the steam-circus. Wonder if it would be any sort of form shyin' at cocoa-nuts in tweeds and a straw hat. Must ask some chap who knows. More puzzlin' what to put on this year than ever!

Lady Ranela Hurlingham (breathlessly to Donkey Proprietor). That's mine, isn't it? Will you please put me up, and promise me you'll keep close behind and make him run. (Suppliantly.) You will, won't you?

The Donkey Proprietor (with a due sense of his own value). Well, I dessay I can come along presently, Lady 'Urlingham, and fetch 'im a whack or two; jest now I can't, having engaged to come and 'old the Marshiness of 'Ammercloth's on 'er moke; but there, you orter be able to git along well enough by yourself now—you ought!

Captain Sonbyrne (just home on leave from India—to Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes). Rather an odd sort of idea this—I mean, coming all the way out here to ride a lot of donkeys, eh?

Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes. It used to be rather amusing a month ago, before they all got used to riding so near the tail; but now they're all so good at it, don't you know.

Capt. Sonb. I went down to Battersea Park yesterday to see the bicyclists. Not a soul there, give you my word!

Mrs. C.-L. No; there wouldn't be this season. You see, all sorts and conditions of people began to take it up, and it got too fearfully common. And now moke-riding has quite cut it out.

Capt. Sonb. But why ride donkeys when you can get gees?

Mrs. C.-L. Oh, well, they're democratic, and cheap, and all that, don't you know. And one really can't be seen on a horse this year—in town, at least. In the country it don't matter so much.

First Mokestrian (to second ditto). Hullo, old chap, so you've taken to a moke at last, eh? How are you gettin' on?

Second Mokestrian. Pretty well. I can sit on his tail all right now, but I can't get into the way of keepin' my heels off the ground yet, it's so beastly difficult.

Fragments from Spectators. That's rather a smart barrow, Lady Barinrayne's drivin' to-day.... Who's the fellow with her, with the paper feather in his pot-hat? Bad style, I call it.... That's Lord Freddy Fugleman—best dressed man in London. You'll see everybody turnin' up in a paper feather in a