OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. 66 ago to have changed his name to BOYVILLE FENN, as he is so associated with Books for Boys, and his Brownsmith's Boy is more 3 DICKENSII nihil à me alienum puto,"quoth the Baron, adviser. Find out The Rover's Secret, by HARRY COLLINGWOOD; boyant than ever. "A capital book" says the Baron's chief taking up 4 Week's Tramp in Dickens-Land. By W. K. HUGHES, F.L.S., with Illustrations by F. G. KITTON, and Others, it is worth knowing, and make friends with ANNIE ARMSTRONG'S published by Messrs. CHAPMAN AND HALL. Ahem! The frisky Three Bright Girls. KITTON, having several tales to play with (probably some relation to Angling Sketches, by ANDREW LANG-Andrew L'Angler-are the Cat-'o-nine-tails, eh ?), has done his work well; and the same delightful reading. The Baron pictures to himself the thoughtful may be said for Others. The work can be recommended as a book and Balfour-like ANDREW on a bank by the river, rod stuck into of pictorial reference for Dickensian students, but otherwise it is ground, pencil and note-book in his hand. What is he doing, my "He's ketchahem-superfluous. If this kind of trading on the name of DICKENS boy?" inquires the Baron, of the hook-baiting boy. continues, we shall probably become HUGHES'd to seeing such ing sumthink," whispers the urchin. Is it Historical Notes on the announcements as, Shortly to appear,-The Collected Bills of the Diet of Wurms? Is it necessary to show that the fish have no Butcher and Baker of Charles Dickens; Upper Storeys of Houses consciousness of Pain?. Or, is he composing Lines to my Rod? Or in whose Neighbourhood Charles Dickens resided: Some Trades- is it a disquisition on "ingratitude," showing how the stream goes on men's Accounts, Receipted and Returned with Thanks, Auto- murmuring? And does he classically remind it how silent it ought graphically, to Charles Dickens, &c., &c. to be,-Dumb defluit annis? Or does the stream murmur because our ANDREW the Fisherman has been whipping" it? Should he betake himself to fly-fishing, let his motto be "Strike and spare not!" and if he would be wise above his fellows in the gentle art of catching fish, let him consult The Incomplete Angler, says, disinterestedly, THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS. 66 66 MEMS FROM MONKEY-LAND. (Being a Report made to the "Royal Simian Society" by Professor Hairy Myas, F.R.S.S., with compliments to Professor Garnier, who continues his articles on 66 a Simian Language" in "The New Review" for this month.) A sad story, picturesquely commenced, and powerfully ended, is RUDYARD KIPLING's The Light that Failed. But, between these two extremes, the conversations have the deadly fault of being wearisome, and, as to the manner of their conversation, were the Baron compelled to listen to much of it, life would indeed not be worth living. The women-kind in it are all detestable; there is none of them that doeth good in the novel, no, not one. It becomes gradually gloomier and gloomier, and, indeed, it is well styled The Light that Failed. Since DAUDET'S Jack, the Baron calls to mind no book more pitiful, no characters more heartless, and no sadder ending. Clever, of course; artistic, equally so; but well, the Baron's advice to his enemies is, Go in heavily for Christmas festivities, have orgy of plum - pudding, creams, sweets, and mince-pies, and, on the day after Boxing Day, stay in-sponding to the language which is the recognised means of comdoors, and read The Light that Failed. municating between Apes. The Light that Failed; or, a Thief in the Candle. an In the Baron's office there are several departments, where SAM the Skipper for novels, CHILD HAROLD for children's books, and PETER the Salt for tales of the sea, are specially busy at Christmas time. To quote the ancient song of the "Mistletoe Bough": "The Baron's retainers were Blythe and Gay;" and so are they now, as the Ladies BELINDA BLYTHE and GRISELDA GAY undertake a considerable proportion of such seasonable reviewing as is more or less expected from the BARON DE BOOK-WORMS about this season of the year. But the Baron reviews the reviewers, and presents the public with only the pick of the basket. Now, once for all, the Baron gives notice hereby and herewith nevertheless and all to the contrary notwithstanding, that neither he nor his retainers will take notice of Christmas puzzles, such as, for example, the bilious-looking Spots Puzzle," which ought to be dedicated to Little Red Riding Hood, as it is brought out by "WOLF." The Baron cannot listen to ". the cry of WOLF." Let that be understood. Now, in the way of Books, what is there for Christmas fare? There is 66 EM Blackie and Son introducing themselves to the Baron de Book-Worms. friend BLACKIE, who doesn't keep himself dark, but comes out with Henty in Plenty, whose Dash for Khartoum will be appreciated even by those who don't ordinarily care a dash for anything. Ask for HENTY, and see that you get him. Mr. MANVILLE FENN ought long I HAVE for some time past paid considerable attention to the sounds uttered by the Human Beings who are permitted to observe our has so obligingly placed at our disposal, rent free. My object has movements, in the wire house which the Proprietor of these gardens been to discover whether the Human Species, though belonging to a rather low form of animal life, can be said to have anything corre I have been much assisted in my investigations by the kind help afforded me by the great Anubis Baboon, who has frequently of nuts to come and make abandoned the consumption experiments on our human visitors; the elder members of the Chimpanzee Family have also been most useful, and have often restrained the young of their household from interrupting my inquiries by ill-timed pleasantries. Only once in the whole course of these scientific labours have I had seriously to complain of my tail being made use of as a swing. It was not long before I came to the conclusion that men do really mean something by the extraordinary gibberings and chatterings in which they indulge. My first experiment was on a female of the species, with a blue feather in her bonnet. At a sign from me, a young Chimpanzee suddenly and adroitly snatched the bonnet from her head. The sound she uttered was, as nearly as I can put it, wh-oo-w! ending in a shrill scream. I therefore take the oo sound to indicate alarm, or dissatisfaction. Exactly the same vowels were used by the Male. The mischievous young of the Human Species, we have discovered, also have this oo sound, and use it when they wish to frighten us. The three conclusions which I have drawn from my inquiries are:1. That Human Beings understand the sounds they utter to each other, and therefore possess a language, as we do. 2. That Human Beings have, in a very imperfect and rudimentary shape, the faculty of reason. 3. That Apes have descended from Men! In other words, that a Monkey is only a highly-developed and more agile Man. These, no doubt, are startling conclusions, and I expect them to excite controversy. In fact, an Ourang-Outang friend of mine, to whom I mentioned them, was so shocked, that he has declined all nourishment ever since. But I rely on the scientific spirit of this great society to do me justice; and I venture to add a request that it will see fit to endow research by voting an extra supply of apples and nuts to the Chimpanzees, the Anubis Baboon, and myself, while we are at work on this very fatiguing field of inquiry. NOTICE.-Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception. LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS. DEAR VANITY, read: No. VII. TO VANITY. distinctions has never been equalled; his advice has been sought by German Professors. Yet he carries all this weight of celebrity and learning as lightly as if it were a wideawake, and seems to think nothing of it. But he has his weak point, and, like Achilles, he has it in his feet. IMAGINE my feelings when I read the following letter. It lay quite innocently on my breakfast-table in a heap of others. It cheerfully give years off his life if only the various philosophers who This veteran investigator, this hoary and venerable Doctor, would was stamped in the ordinary way, post-marked in the ordinary way; from time to time sit at his feet would recognise that those feet are and addressed correctly, though how the charming writer discovered small, and compliment him on the fact. They are small, there is no my address I cannot undertake to say; in fact, there was nothing doubt of it, but not small enough to be encased without agony in the in its outward appearance to distinguish it from the rest of my tiny, natty, pointed boots that he habitually wears. Let anybody everyday correspondence. I opened it carelessly, and this is what I who wants to get anything out of Dr. PEAGAM lead the conversation craftily on to the subject of feet and their proper size. Let him then make the discovery (aloud) that the Doctor's feet are extraordinarily small and beautiful, and I warrant that there is nothing the Doctor can bestow which shall not be freely offered to this cunning flatterer. That is why Dr. PEAGAM, a modest man in most respects, always insists on sitting in the front row on any platform, and ostentatiously dusts his boots with a red silk pocket-handkerchief. Then, again, who is there that has not heard of Major-General RIDICULOUS BEING,-In the course of a fairly short life I have read many absurd things, but never in all my existence have I read anything so absurd as your last letter. I don't say that your amiable story about HERMIONE MAYBLOOM is not absolutely true; in fact, I knew HERMIONE very slightly myself when everybody was raving about her, and I never could understand what all you men (for, of course, you are a man; no woman could be so foolish) saw in her to make you lose your preposterous heads. To me she always seemed silly and affected, and not in the least pretty, with her snub nose, and her fuzzy hair. So I am rather glad, not from any personal motive, but for the sake of truth and justice, that you have shown her up. No; what I do complain of is, your evident intention to make the world believe that only women are vain. You pretend to lecture us about our shortcomings, and you don't seem to know that there is no vainer creature in existence than a man. No peacock that ever strutted with an expanded tail is onehalf so ridiculous or silly as a man. I make no distinctions-all men are the same; at least, that's my experience, and that of every woman I ever met. How do you suppose a woman like HERMIONE succeeds as she does? Why she finds out (it doesn't take long, I assure you) the weak points of the men she meets, their wretched jealousies, affectations and conceits, and then artfully proceeds to flatter them and make each of them think his particular self the lord of creation, until she has all the weak and foolish creatures wound round her little finger, and slavishly ready to fetch and carry for her. And all the time you go about and boast of your conquest to one another, and imagine that you have subjugated her. But she sits at home and laughs at you, and despises you all from the flinty bottom of her heart. Bah! you're a pack of fools, and I've no patience with you. As for you personally, if you must write any more, tell your fellow men something about their own follies. It won't be news to us, but it may open their eyes. If you can't do that, you had better retire into your tub, and cease your painful barking altogether. I've got my eye on you, so be careful. I remain (thank goodness) A WOMAN. Now that was not altogether an agreeable breakfast dish. And the worst of it was that it was so supremely unjustifiable. Had my indignant correspondent honoured me with her address, I should have answered her at once. "Madam," I should have said, 66 your anger outstrips your reason. I always intended to say something about men. I had already begun a second letter to my friend VANITY on the subject. I can therefore afford to forgive your hard words, and to admit that there is a certain amount of truth in your strictures on us. But please don't write to me again so furiously. Such excessive annoyance is quite out of keeping with your pretty handwriting, and besides, it takes away my appetite to think I have even involuntarily given you pain. Be kind enough to look out for my next letter, but don't, for goodness' sake, tell me what you think about it, unless it should happen to please you. In that case I shall, of course, be proud and glad to hear from you again." I now proceed, therefore, to carry out my intention, and, as usual, I address myself to the fountain head. My dear VANITY, I never shall understand why you take so much trouble to get hold of men. They are not a pleasing sight when you have got them, and after a time it must cease to amuse even you to see yourself reproduced over and over again, and in innumerable ridiculous ways. For instance, there is Dr. PEAGAM, the celebrated author of Indo-Hebraic Fairy Tales: a new Theory of their Rise and Development, with an Excursus on an Early Aryan Version of "Three Blind Mice." Dr. PEAGAM is learned; he has the industry of a beaver; he is a correspondent of goodness knows how many foreign philosophical, philological, and mythological societies; his record of University VOL. CI. WHACKLEY, V.C., the hero who captured the ferocious Ameer of Mudwallah single-handed, and carried him on his back to the English camp-the man to whose dauntless courage, above all others, the marvellous victory of Pilferabad was due ? Speak to him on military matters, and you will find the old warrior as shy as a school-girl; but only mention the word poetry, and you'll have him reciting his ballads and odes to you by the dozen, and declaiming for hours together about the obtuseness of the publishing fraternity. I don't speak now of literary men who value themselves above LAMB, DICKENS, and THACKERAY, rolled into one; nor of artists who sneer at TITIAN; nor of actors who hold GARRICK to be absurdly overrated. Space would fail me, and patience you. But let me just for a brief moment call to your mind ROLAND PRETTYMAN. Upon my soul, I think ROLAND the most empty-headed fribble, the most affected coxcomb, and the most conceited noodle in the whole world. He was decently good-looking once, and he had a pretty knack of sketching in water-colours. But oh, the huge, distorted, overweening conceit of the man! I have seen him lying full length on a couch, waving a scented handkerchief amongst a crowd of submissive women, who were grovelling round him, while he enlarged in his own pet jargon on the surpassing merits of his latest unpublished essay, or pointed out the beauties of the trifling pictures which were the products of his ineffective brush. He will never accomplish anything, and yet to the end of his life, I fancy, he will have his circle of toadies and flatterers who will pretend to accept him as the evangelist of a glorious literary and artistic gospel. For unfortunately he is as rich as he is impudent and incompetent. And when he drives out in a Hansom he never ceases to simper at his reflected image in the little corner looking-glasses, by means of which modern cab-proprietors pander to the weakness of men. Such is your handiwork, my excellent VANITY. Are you proud of it? DIOGENES ROBINSON. Yours, &c., ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. "ONE WHO DOESN'T KNOW EVERYTHING."-You ask, What are the duties of "the Ranger"? Household duties only. He has to inspect the kitchen-ranges in the kitchens of Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, Balmoral, and Osborne. Hence the style and title. He also edits Cook's Guides. "ANOTHER IDIOT" wishes to know if there is such an appointment in the gift of the Crown as the office of "Court Sweep." Why, certainly; and, on State occasions, he wears the Court Soot, and his broom is always waiting for him at the entrance! At Balmoral and Osborne there is a beautiful sweep leading the visitor right up to the front door. "ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE" writes us,-"Sir, in what poem of MILTON's does the following couplet occur "I'll light the gas soon, To play the bas-soon. How are the lines to be scanned?" Ans.-On internal evidence, we question whether the lines are MILTON'S. In the absence of our Poet, who is out for a holiday, we can only reply, that if shortsighted, you can scan them by the aid of a powerful glass-of your favourite compound. [" The Associated Chambers of Commerce ask that the Coastguard stations, shore-lighthouses, rock lighthouses, and light-ships of the United Kingdom, should, as far as possible, be connected by telegraph or telephone with the general telegraph system of the country, as a means for the protection of life and property, as well as for national defence.'.... France and America, Holland and Denmark, provide their seamen with this great safeguard in the hour of their utmost need. Is England content to let her sailors die by hundreds for want of a little money, or for want of a little care?"-Times.] Prospero. Why, that's my spirit! But was not the nigh shore? Close by, my master. Ariel. Tempest, Act I., Scene 2. CONTENT? There's many an English heart will hear with fierce That England lags so far behind in these electric days- [amaze England, whose seamen are her shield, who vaunts in speech and song. Of swell and sweep as the salt waves you sang as none could sing! Content? Whilst round our rocky coasts the souls who guard them Had witched with its white radiance, yet sped from height to height Reveillé shot from sea to sea, from wave-washed shire to shire; light, Burning across the briny floods through the black mirk of night, Forth-gleaming like the eyes of Hope, or like the fires of Home, Upon the eager eyes of men far-straining o'er the foam. Good! But how greatly less than good to fear, to think, to know That inland England's less alert against a whelming foe Than when bonfire and beacon flared mere flame of wood and pitch, From Surrey hills to Skiddaw! Science-dowered, serenely rich, Safe in its snugly sheltered homes, our England lies at ease, Warmly the lighthouse wafts its blaze of welcome o'er the brine; Content with this? Nay, callous he whom this stirs not to rage, Punch pictures, with prophetic pen, a brighter cheerier page, Which must be turned, and speedily: Good Mr. PROSPERO BULL, Your Ariel is the Electric Sprite, DIBDIN, of pity full 66 66 ALL BERRY WELL. SIR,-As there is so much talk just now about the best way in which to make Coffee, I will mention the plan I adopt, in the hope that some of your readers may imitate it in their own homes; It is very simple. You take some of the excellent Coffee Mixture,' sold by the Arabo-Egyptian Pure Parisian Berry Company, Limited," at sixpence the pound. You need not give more than one tea-spoon to every four persons, as the coffee is very good and thick. Add condensed milk, and fill with water, after which, let the pot stand on the hob an hour before use. You would be surprised at the quality of the fluid which results. It gives general satisfaction in my own circle. My nephew, who lives with me, declares that it is the only genuine coffee he has drunk since he returned from the East. He usually, however, has his breakfast out. My General Servant says that "she prefers it to beer" (though she takes both), and has asked me for some to send to an Aunt of hers with whom she has quarrelled. I think this very nice and forgiving of her, and have allowed her a quarter of a pound for that purpose. My son-in-law, who unfortunately is rather addicted to drink, says it is "the finest tap he ever tasted," and adds that if he could be sure of always having such Coffee, he would join the Blue Ribbon Army at once. Hitherto he has not joined. Yours humbly, MARTHA HUSWIFE. SIR,-At my "Home for Elderly Orphans of Defective Brain Power," I give an excellent Coffee, made of five parts chicory, and one of Mocha, supplied at a cheap rate by a House in the City, which NATURAL HISTORY. "OH, LOOK, MUMMIE! NOW IT'S LEFT OFF RAINING, HE 's COME OUT OF HIS KENNEL!" owes me money, and is paying it off in this way, with skim-milk added, in moderation, and no sugar. None of the orphans has ever complained of my Coffee. I should like to catch them doing so. It is nonsense to say the art of coffee-making is unknown in England. Yours, indignantly, CLEOPATRA JONES. : SIR,-Here is the recipe for Coffee which we use at this Buffet:"Place one pound of the Nonpareil Turkish Pasha's Special Brand Extract of finest Mocha' in the urn in the morning. Pour on boiling water to half-way up. Let it stew all day. Draw off as wanted, and dilute with 'Anglo-African Condensed Cows' Milk.' Tea (made on similar principles); but it is as well that the Public Strange to say, we do not find great demand either for Coffee or should know that we have both in constant readiness, and of firstclass quality. The traveller who has drunk a cup of this Coffee in conjunction with one of our celebrated Home-made Pork Pies, does not require anything else till the end of the very longest journey, and, probably, not even then. KEEPER OF THE REFRESHMENT ROOM, STARVEM JUNCTION. THE GEORGIAN ERA AT THE ALHAMBRA.-Mrs. ABBOTT is an electric wonder. Not strong muscularly, but with sufficient electric power to support four or five of the inferior sex heaped anyhow on a chair. Such a woman is a crown to a husband-nay, any amount of crowns at £200 per week-and capable of supporting a family, however large, all by her own exertions, or indeed, with scarcely any exertion at all. At present, though married, she is a femme seule: but how long will she remain the only electric wonder in London? Many years ago there was a one-legged dancer named DONATO. Within sixteen weeks there were as many onelegged dancers. We don't speak by the card, of course, but onelegged dancers became a drug in the market. Already we hear of "A Dynamic Phenomenon" at the Pavilion. Little Mrs. ABBOTT is an active, spry little person, yet her "vis inertia" is, at present, without a parallel. THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. No. XVI. SCENE Terrace and Grounds of the Grand Hôtel Villa d'Este, on Lake Como. PODBURY and CULCHARD are walking up and down together. Podbury. Well, old chap, your resigning like that has made all the difference to me, I can tell you! Culchard. If I have succeeded in advancing your cause with Miss PRENDERGAST, I am all the better pleased, of course. Podb. You have, and no mistake. She's regularly taken me in hand, don't you know she says I've no intelligent appreciation of Italian Art; and gad, I believe she's right there! But I'm pulling up-bound to teach you a lot, seeing all the old altar-pieces I do! And she gives me the right tips, don't you see; she's no end of a clever girl, so well-read and all that! But I say-about Miss TROTTER? Don't want to be inquisitive, you know, but you don't seem to be much about with her. Culch. I-er-the feelings I entertain towards Miss TROTTER have suffered no change-quite the reverse, only-and I wish to impress this upon you, PODBURY-it is undesirable, forer many reasons, to make my attentions -er-too conspicuous. I-I trust you have not alluded to the matter to-well, to Miss PRENDERGAST, for example? Podb. Not I, old fellow-got other things to talk about. But I don't quite see why Culch. You are not required to see. I don't wish it, that is all. I-er-think that should be sufficient. Podb. Oh, all right, I'll keep dark. But she's bound to know sooner or later, now she and Miss TROTTER have struck up such a friendship. And HYPATIA will be awfully pleased about it-why shouldn't she, you know?... I'm going to see if there's anyone on the tenniscourt, and get a game if I can. Ta-ta! Culch. (alone). PODBURY knows very little about women. If HYP Miss PRENDERGAST-once found out why I renounced my suitorship, I should have very little peace, I know that I've taken particular care not to betray my attachment to MAUD. I'm afraid she's beginning to notice it, but I must be careful. I don't like this sudden intimacy between them it makes things so very awkward. They've been sitting under that tree over there for the last half-hour, and goodness only knows what confidences they may have exchanged! I really must go up and put a stop to it, presently. Under the Tree. Hypatia. I only tell you all this, sweetest one, because I do think you have rather too low an opinion of men as a class, and I wanted to show you that I Hyp. Certainly not. The whole beauty of the idea lies in the unselfish and exclusive devotion of every knight to the same sovereign lady. In this case I happen to know that the-a-individual had never met his ideal until Maud. Until he met you? At Nuremberg, wasn't it? My! And what was his name? Do tell! Hyp. You must not press me, sweetest, for I cannot tell thateven to you. Maud. I don't believe but what I could guess. But say, you didn't care any for him, or you'd never have let him go like that? I wouldn't. I should have suspected there was something behind! Hyp. My feelings towards him were purely potential. I did him the simple justice to believe that his self-abnegation was sincere. But, with your practical, cynical little mind, darling, you are hardly capable of-excuse me for saying so-of appreciating the real value and meaning of such magnanimity! Maud. Oh, I guess I am, though. Why, here's Mr. CULCHARD coming along. Well, Mr. CULCHARD? Culch. I-ah-appear to have interrupted a highly interesting conversation? Maud. Well, we were having a little all discussion, and I guess you're in time to give the casting vote-HYPATIA, you want to keep just where you are, do you hear? I mean you should listen to Mr. CULCHARD's opinion. Culch. (flattered). Which I shall be delighted to give, if you will put me in possession of the-er-facts. Maud. Well, these are the-er-facts. There were two gentlemen under vowmaybe you'll understand the working of that arrangement better than I do?under vow for the same young lady. [HYPATIA PRENDERGAST, sit still, or I declare I'll pinch you!!] One of them comes up and tells her that he's arrived at the conclusion the other admirer is the better man, and, being a friend of chis, he ought to retire in his favour, and the does it, too, right away. Now I say that isn't natural-he'd some other motive. Miss PRENDERGAST here will have it he was one of those noble unselfish natures that deserve they should be stuffed for a museum. What's your opinion now? have met at least one man who was capable "Bound to teach you a lot, seeing all the old altar-pieces I do!" of a real and disinterested devotion. Maud. Well, I allowed that was about your idea. Hyp. And don't you recognise that it was very fine of him to give up everything for his friend's sake? Maud. I guess it depends how much "everything" amounted to. Hyp. (annoyed). I thought, darling, I had made it perfectly plain what a sacrifice it meant to him. I know how much he-I needn't tell you there are certain symptoms one cannot be deceived in. Maud. No, I guess you needn't tell me that, love. And it was perfectly lovely of him to give you up, when he was under vow for you and all, sooner than stand in his friend's light-only I don't just see how that was going to help his friend any. Hyp. Don't you, dearest? Not when the friend was under vow for me, too? Maud. Well, HYPATIA PRENDERGAST! And how many admirers do you have around under vow, as a regular thing? Hyp. There were only those two. RUSKIN permits as many as seven at one time. Maud. That's a vurry liberal allowance, too. I don't see how there'd be sufficient suitors to go round. But maybe each gentleman can be under vow for seven distinct girls, to make things sort of square now? I Culch. (perspiring freely). Why-er -really, on so delicate a matter, I[He maunders. Hyp. MAUD, why will you be so headstrong! (In a rapid whisper.) Can't you see. can't you guess? ... Maud. I guess I want to make sure Mr. CULCHARD isn't that kind of magnanimous man himself. I shouldn't want him to renounce me! Hyp. MAUD! You might at least wait until Mr. CULCHARD has Maud. Oh, but he did-weeks ago, at Bingen. And at Lugano, too, the other day, he spoke out tolerable plain. I guess he didn't wish any secret made about it-did you, Mr. CULCHARD? Culch. I-ah-this conversation is [Escapes with as much dignity rather... If you 'll excuse me as he can command. Maud. Well, my dear,-that's the sort of self-denying hairpin he is! What do you think of him now? Hyp. I do not think so highly of him, I confess. His renunciation was evidently less prompted by consideration for his friend than by a recollection-tardy enough, I am afraid-of the duty which bound him to you, dearest. But if you had seen and heard him, as I did, you would not have doubted the reality of the sacrifice, whatever the true reason may have been. For myself, I am conscious of neither anger nor sorrow-my heart, as I told you, was never really affected. But what must it be to you, darling! Maud. Well, I believe I'm more amused than anything. Hyp. Amused! But surely you don't mean to have anything more to do with him ? Maud. My dear girl, I intend to have considerable more to do with him before I'm through. He's under vow for me now, anyway, and I don't mean he should forget it, either. He's my monkey, and he's got to jump around pretty lively, at the end of a tolerable short chain, too. And I guess, if it comes to renouncing, all the magnanimity's going to be on my side this time! |