uery—What shall we do?

We lounge over the room undecidedly. Mrs. Boodels thinks it's still raining. Pouring. Miss Bella says, “What a bother!” Miss Medford remembers having heard a problem worthy the Professor's attention. We pause in our indecision, and she reads from her album.

What circumstance most justifies loss of patience?

The Professor of Scientific Economy replies, a smoky chimney.

? He explains that he is thinking of a bitterly cold day in winter when he wanted to sit in his study, and write a treatise on the Amount of change to be obtained out of a Roman Denarius, B.C. 108. On this occasion his chimney would smoke, and he had to sit with the door and window open. Then the smoke choked him; next, the draught gave him cold; then his fingers became frozen; finally, his feet were like icicles in refrigerating stockings. After standing this for about two hours, he could not help saying.......

Evidently a case where the Recording Angel would not even chance a blot.

Happy Thought.—What a mess that book will be in. Perhaps illegible!!

?

Miss Adelaide Cherton thinks that to find a wasp inside the only peach on the wall was most provoking.

Byrton's Opinion. Hot coffee over your new cords on a “show-meet” day.

It strikes me that to come on shore after taking a swim in the river, and not to be able to find your clothes, is a circumstance quite justifying loss of patience.

Apropos of this, Chilvern says he recollects a fellow—Smith, a friend of his—bathing, and when he came out he couldn't find his clothes. So, as some people were coming along the bank, Smith retired to the stream, and Chilvern went to search for the habiliments. The fact was, that Smith had gone down with the stream, and his clothes had been consequently left a mile behind.

Chilvern found the clothes, then returned, but couldn't find Smith.

The current had taken him down stream another mile.

So it might have gone on; had not the river been a tidal one (or worked on some peculiar principles, which Chilvern doesn't explain)—and, the stream changing, back brought Smith with it, and then he was happy,—only with a cold for ever after.

Mrs. Boodels being informed of the discussion through her ear-trumpet, said that losing a thimble was quite sufficient to justify any loss of patience.

The gentlemen present observe, that they have no doubt it is so, but they have had no experience.

Milburd thinks that the button off your collar, or, losing your stud, at the last moment, is the most trying thing.

Bella Cherton, after walking to the window several times and seeing no sign of fine weather, says, “I'll tell you what I consider most justifies loss of patience.”

“What?” we inquire. “Sitting here!” she replied.

Note. This sort of reply rather throws a damper over efforts to be genial. Mrs. Boodels wishes it to be repeated to her through the trumpet. Damper through the ear trumpet.

Mrs. Orby Frimmely says, that trying to get through your favourite valse with a bad partner... Ah!

Mrs. O. F.'s Happy Thought. “By the way, as it is so wet, why not have a dance? Mr. Medford can play.”

Seconded by Byrton, and supported by the ladies.

Adjournment to Drawing-Room. Odd. We suddenly fall into our ball-room manners. Talking to partners quietly. Going out to get cool,—on the stairs.

Byrton is dancing with Mrs. Orby Frimmely. Mr. Orby Frimmely being engaged in town is not here.

Byrton is certainly very much struck, in fact he says so; and shows it. However, he is always being struck, always saying so, always showing it, and ... that's all.

Jenkyns Soames has retired to his room; probably to write to Rothschild.

Chilvern is Miss Cherton's partner.

Milburd is Miss Bella's.

I don't dance. I debate with myself whether I can or not. I used to. In a waltz for instance, I know two steps out of three. The third is where I fail. Dances change so. My waltz is the Deux temps, for the simple reason that the Deux temps does also for the galop, that is, it does for my galop.

I flatter myself on my galop. Here, so to speak, I am at home. If Medford can only play a galop, and if Miss Bella will give up Milburd, or Milburd give her up, why je suis son homme. I am her man.

Medford will do a galop, he says; and immediately before I have time to ask if Bella—if Miss Bella ... he strikes into it and the dancers change their step, and are whirling round and round, then up and down. I can't stop them. As the opera books say, “Rage! Madness! Despair!”

I catch her eye.

She understands, I am sure.

She will...

If she does...

She stops, making some excuse to Milburd and looking at me. (Aha! Milburd! you think yourself such a lady killer, that a .. this to myself, thinkingly).

Happy Thought.—To go up to her and say, “You promised me.”

I do it.

“Did I?” she says. Milburd gives in, unexpectedly, and relinquishes her.

Aha! we are off! Round and round ... carpet rather bad to dance on ... up and down ... I feel that we are just skirting chairs, and that another inch will bring down the fire-irons——we put on the pace ... I haven't danced for ... well, for some considerable time ... we nearly come bang against the piano ... my fault .. beg pardon ... but we won't stop...

“Oh no!” says Bella ... and we don't stop.

A little quieter, just to, as it were, regain consciousness, for everything is becoming blurred—(jerky sentences while dancing) ... “It's more difficult ... to steer when ... there are a few ... than when...” “Yes,” says Miss Bella, who quite understands. (Myself tenderly.) “Do you ... like dancing?” ... “Yes,” ... (whirl round, up and down ... then) ... “This dance?” ... What? ... (whirl round just to get the steam up again for the question, and put it sotto voce, finding myself close to her ear—such a pretty little ear—made to be whispered into). “Do you like this dance?” ... “Very much.” (My heart is fluttering nervously, like a stray bird under a skylight) ... “With anyone?” ... (No answer ... My question means do you prefer ME to dance with, and not only to dance with, but...)

The music ceases. Medford is tired. We all thank him.Gong. Luncheon.

If it hadn't been for the gong...

But at all events the wet morning is over.