The majority of the inside passengers, as usual, sit in solemn silence, and gaze past their opposite neighbours into vacancy. A couple of Matrons converse in wheezy whispers.

First Matron. Well, I must say a bus is pleasanter riding than what they used to be not many years back, and then so much cheaper, too. Why you can go all the way right from here to Mile End Road for threepence!

Second Matron. What, all that way for threepence—(with an impulse of vague humanity). The poor 'orses!

First Matron. Ah, well, my dear, it's Competition, you know,—it don't do to think too much of it.

Conductor (stopping the bus). Orchard Street, Lady!

[To Second Matron, who had desired to be put down there.

Second Matron (to Conductor). Just move on a few doors further, opposite the boot-shop. (To First Matron.) It will save us walking.

Conductor. Cert'inly, Mum, we'll drive in and wait while you're tryin' 'em on, if you like—we ain't in no 'urry!

[The Matrons get out, and their places are taken by two young girls, who are in the middle of a conversation of thrilling interest.

First Girl. I never liked her myself—ever since the way she behaved at his Mother's that Sunday.

Second Girl. How did she behave?

[A faint curiosity is discernible amongst the other passengers to learn how she—whoever she is—behaved that Sunday.

First Girl. Why, it was you told me! You remember. That night Joe let out about her and the automatic scent fountain.

Second Girl. Oh, yes, I remember now. (General disappointment.) I couldn't help laughing myself. Joe didn't ought to have told—but she needn't have got into such a state over it, need she?

First Girl. That was Eliza all over. If George had been sensible, he'd have broken it off then and there—but no, he wouldn't hear a word against her, not at that time—it was the button-hook opened his eyes!

[The other passengers strive to dissemble a frantic desire to know how and why this delicate operation was performed.

Second Girl (mysteriously). And enough too! But what put George off most was her keeping that bag so quiet.

[The general imagination is once more stirred to its depths by this mysterious allusion.

First Girl. Yes, he did feel that, I know, he used to come and go on about it to me by the hour together. "I shouldn't have minded so much," he told me over and over again, with the tears standing in his eyes,—"if it hadn't been that the bottles was all silver-mounted!"

Second Girl. Silver-mounted? I never heard of that before—no wonder he felt hurt!

First Girl (impressively). Silver tops to every one of them—and that girl to turn round as she did, and her with an Uncle in the oil and colour line, too—it nearly broke George's 'art!

Second Girl. He's such a one to take on about things—but, as I said to him, "George," I says, "You must remember it might have been worse. Suppose you'd been married to that girl, and then found out about Alf and the Jubilee sixpence—how would that have been?"

First Girl (unconsciously acting as the mouthpiece of the other passengers). And what did he say to that?

Second Girl. Oh, nothing—there was nothing he could say, but I could see he was struck. She behaved very mean to the last—she wouldn't send back the German concertina.

First Girl. You don't say so! Well, I wouldn't have thought that of her, bad as she is.

Second Girl. No, she stuck to it that it wasn't like a regular present, being got through a grocer, and as she couldn't send him back the tea, being drunk,—but did you hear how she treated Emma over the crinoline 'at she got for her?

First Girl (to the immense relief of the rest). No, what was that?

Second Girl. Well, I had it from Emma her own self. Eliza wrote up to her and says, in a postscript like,—Why, this is Tottenham Court Road, I get out here. Good-bye, dear, I must tell you the rest another day.

[Gets out, leaving the tantalised audience inconsolable, and longing for courage to question her companion as to the precise details of Eliza's heartless behaviour to George. The companion, however, relapses into a stony reserve. Enter a Chatty Old Gentleman who has no secrets from anybody, and of course selects as the first recipient of his confidence the one person who hates to be talked to in an omnibus.

The Chatty O. G. I've just been having a talk with the policeman at the corner there—what do you think I said to him?

His Opposite Neighbour. I—I really don't know.

THE C. O. G. Well, I told him he was a rich man compared to me. He said "I only get thirty shillings a week, Sir." "Ah," I said, "but look at your expenses, compared to mine. What would you do if you had to spend eight hundred a year on your children's education?" I spend that—every penny of it, Sir.

His Opp. N. (utterly uninterested). Do you indeed?—dear me!

C. O. G. Not that I grudge it—a good education is a fortune in itself, and as I've always told my boys, they must make the best of it, for it's all they'll get. They're good enough lads, but I've had a deal of trouble with them one way and another—a deal of trouble. (Pauses for some expression of sympathy—which does not come—and he continues:) There are my two eldest sons—what must they do but fall in love with the same lady—the same lady, Sir! (No one seems to care much for these domestic revelations—possibly because they are too obviously addressed to the general ear). And, to make matters worse, she was a married woman—(his principal hearer looks another way uneasily)—the wife of a godson of mine, which made it all the more awkward, y'know. (His Opposite Neighbour giving no sign, the C. O. G. tries one Passenger after another.) Well, I went to him—(here he fixes an old Lady, who immediately passes up coppers out of her glove to the Conductor)—I went to him, and said—(addressing a smartly dressed young Lady with a parcel who giggles)—I said, "You're a man of the world—so am I. Don't you take any notice," I told him—(this to a callow young man, who blushes)—"they're a couple of young fools," I said, "but you tell your dear wife from me not to mind those boys of mine—they'll soon get tired of it if they're only let alone." And so they would have, long ago, it's my belief, if they'd met with no encouragement—but what can I do—it's a heavy trial to a father, you know. Then there's my third son—he must needs go and marry—(to a Lady at his side with a reticule, who gasps faintly)—some young woman who dances at a Music-hall—nice daughter-in-law that for a man in my position, eh? I've forbidden him the house of course, and told his mother not to have any communication with him—but I know, Sir,—(violently, to a Man on his other side, who coughs in much embarrassment)—I know she meets him once a week under the eagle in Orme Square, and I can't stop her! Then I'm worried about my daughters—one of 'em gave me no peace till I let her have some painting lessons—of course, I naturally thought the drawing-master would be an elderly man—whereas, as things turned out,——

A QUIET MAN IN A CORNER. I 'ope you told all this to the Policeman, Sir?

The C. O. G. (flaming unexpectedly). No, Sir, I did not. I am not in the habit—whatever you may be—of discussing my private affairs with strangers. I consider your remark highly impertinent, Sir.

[Fumes in silence for the rest of the journey.

The Young Lady with the Parcel (to her friend—for the sake of vindicating her gentility). Oh, my dear, I do feel so funny, carrying a great brown-paper parcel, in a bus, too! Any one would take me for a shop-girl!

A Grim Old Lady Opposite. And I only hope, my dear, you'll never be taken for any one less respectable.

[Collapse of Genteel Y.L.

First Humorous 'Arry (recognising a friend on entering). Excuse me stoppin' your kerridge, old man, but I thought you wouldn't mind givin' me a lift, as you was goin' my way.

Second H. 'A. Quite welcome, old chap, so long as you give my man a bit when you git down, yer know.

First H. 'A. Oh, o' course—that's expected between gentlemen.

(Both look round to see if their facetiousness is appreciated, find it is not and subside.)

The Conductor. Benk, benk! (he means "Bank") 'Oborn, benk! 'Igher up there, Bill, can't you?

A Dingy Man smoking, in a van. Want to block up the ole o' the road, eh? That's right!

The Conductor (roused to personality). Go 'ome, Dirty Dick! syme old soign, I see,—"Monkey an' Poipe!" (To Coachman of smart brougham which is pressing rather closely behind.) I say old man, don't you race after my bus like this—you'll only tire your 'orse.

[The Coachman affects not to have heard.

The Conductor (addressing the brougham horse, whose head is almost through the door of the omnibus). 'Ere, 'ang it all!—step insoide, if yer want to!

[Brougham falls to rear—triumph of Conductor as Scene closes.