IN THE CENTRAL HALL.

A Thrifty Visitor (on entering). Catalogue? No. What's the use of a Catalogue? Miserable thing, the size of a tract, that tells you nothing you don't know!

His Wife (indicating a pile of Catalogues on table). Aren't these big enough for you?

The Thr. V. Those? Why they're big enough for the London Directory! Think I'm going to drag a thing like that about the place? You don't really want a Catalogue—it's all your fancy!

Mr. Prattler (to Miss Ammerson). Oh, do stop and look at these sweet goldfish! Pets! Don't you love them? Aren't they tame?

Miss Ammerson. Wouldn't do to have them wild—might jump out and bite people, you know!

Mr. P. It's too horrid of you to make fun of my poor little enthusiasms! But really,—couldn't we get something and feed them?—Do let's!

Miss A. I dare say you could get ham-sandwiches in the Restaurant—or chocolates.

Mr. P. How unkind you are to me! But I don't care. (Wilfully.) I shall come here all by myself, and bring biscuits. Great big ones! Are you determined to take me into that big room with all the Portraits? Well you must tell me who they all are, then, and which are the Guelphiest ones.

Considerate Niece (to Uncle). They seem mostly Portraits here. You're sure you don't mind looking at them, Uncle? I know so many people do object to Portraits.

Uncle (with the air of a Christian Martyr). No, my dear, no; I don't mind 'em. Stay here as long as you like. I'll sit down and look at the people till you've done.

First Critical Visitor (examining a View of St. James's Park). I wonder where that was taken. In Scotland, I expect—there's two Highlanders there, you see.

Second C. V. Shouldn't wonder—lot o' work in that, all those different colours, and so many dresses. [Admires, thoughtfully.

A Well-read Woman. That's Queen Charlotte, that is. George the Third's wife, you know—her that was so domestic.

Her Companion. Wasn't that the one that was shut up in the Tower, or something?

The W. W. In the Tower? Lor, my dear, no, I never 'eard of it. You're thinking of the Tudors, or some o' that lot, I expect!

Her Comp. Am I? I dare say. I never could remember 'Istry. Why, if you'll believe me, I always have to stop and think which of the Georges came first!

More Critical Visitors (before Portraits). He's rather pleasant-looking, don't you think? I don't like her face at all. So peculiar. And what a hideous dress—like a tea-gown without any upper part—frightful!

A Sceptical V. They all seem to have had such thin lips in those days. Somehow, I can't bring myself to believe in such very thin lips—can you, dear?

Her Friend. I always think it's a sign of meanness, myself.

The S. V. No; but I mean—I can't believe every one had them in the eighteenth century.

Her Friend. Oh, I don't know. If it was the fashion!

ABOUT THE CASES.

Visitor (admiring an embroidered waistcoat of the time of George the Second—a highly popular exhibit). What lovely work! Why, it looks as if it was done yesterday!

Her Companion (who is not in the habit of allowing his enthusiasm to run away with him). Um—yes, it's not bad. But, of course, they wouldn't send a thing like that here without having it washed and done up first!

An Old Lady. "Teapot used by the Duke of Wellington during his campaigns." So he drank tea, did he? Dear me! Do you know, my dear, I think I must have my old tea-pot engraved. It will make it so much more interesting some day!

IN THE SOUTH GALLERY.

Mr. Prattler (before a portrait of Lady Hamilton by Romney). There! Isn't she too charming? I do call her a perfect duck!

Miss Ammerson. Yes, you mustn't forget her when you bring those biscuits.

An Amurrcan Girl. Father, see up there; there's Byron. Did you erver see such a purrfectly beautiful face?

Her Father (solemnly). He was a beautiful Man—a beautiful Poet.

The A. G. I know—but the expression, it's real saint-like!

Father (slowly). Well, I guess if he'd had any different kind of expression, he wouldn't have written the things he did write, and that's a fact!

A Moralising Old Lady (at Case O). No. 1260. "Ball of Worsted wound by William Cowper, the poet, for Mrs. Unwin." No. 1261. "Netting done by William Cowper, the poet." How very nice, and what a difference in the habit of literary persons nowadays, my dear!

IN THE CENTRAL HALL.

Mr. Whiterose, a Jacobite fin de siÈcle, is seated on a Bench beside a Seedy Stranger.

The S. S. (half to himself). Har, well, there's one comfort, these 'ere Guelphs'll get notice to quit afore we're much older!

Mr. Whiterose (surprised). You say so? Then you too are of the Young England Party! I am rejoiced to hear it. You cheer me; it is a sign that the good Cause is advancing.

The S. S. Advancin'? I believe yer. Why, I know a dozen and more as are workin' 'art and soul for it!

Mr. W. You do? We are making strides, indeed! Our England has suffered these usurpers too long.

The S. S. Yer right. But we'll chuck 'em out afore long, and it'll be "Over goes the Show" with the lot, eh?

Mr. W. I had no idea that the—er—intelligent artisan classes were so heartily with us. We must talk more of this. Come and see me. Bring your friends—all you can depend upon. Here is my card.

The S. S. (putting the card in the lining of his hat). Right, Guv'nor; we'll come. I wish there was more gents like yer, I do!

Mr. W. We are united by a common bond. We both detest—do we not?—the Hanoverian interlopers. We are both pledged never to rest until we have brought back to the throne of our beloved England, her lawful sovereign lady—(uncovering)—our gracious Mary of Austria-Este, the legitimate descendant of Charles the Blessed Martyr!

The S. S. 'Old on, Guv'nor! Me and my friends are with yer so fur as doing away with these 'ere hidle Guelphs; but blow yer Mary of Orstria, yer know. Blow 'er!

Mr. W. (horrified). Hush—this is rank treason! Remember—she is the lineal descendant of the House of Stuart!

The S. S. What of it? There won't be no lineal descendants when we git hour way, 'cause there won't be nothing to descend to nobody. The honly suv'rin we mean to 'ave is the People—the Democrisy. But there, you're young, me and my friends'll soon tork you over to hour way o' thinking. I dessay we 'aint fur apart, as it is. I got yer address, and we'll drop in on yer some night—never fear. No hevenin' dress, o' course?

Mr. W. Of course. I—I'll look out for you. But I'm seldom in—hardly ever, in fact.

The S. S. Don't you fret about that. Me and my friends ain't nothing partickler to do just now. We'll wait for yer. I should like yer to know ole Bill Gabb. You should 'ear that feller goin' on agin the Guelphs when he's 'ad a little booze—it 'ud do your 'art good. Well, I on'y come in 'ere as a deligate like, to report, and I seen enough. So 'ere's good-day to yer.

Mr W. (alone). I shall have to change my rooms—and I was so comfortable! Well, well,—another sacrifice to the Cause!