SCENE XXXI.--_The Morning Room._ TIME--_Sunday morning; just after

breakfast._

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_outside, to_ TREDWELL). Dogcart round, eh? everything in? All right--shan't be a minute. (_Entering._) Hallo, PILLINER, you all alone here? (_He looks round disconcertedly._) Don't happen to have seen Lady MAISIE about?

_Pilliner._ Let me see--she _was_ here a little while ago, I fancy.... Why? Do you want her?

_Capt. Thick._ No--only to say good-bye and that. I'm just off.

_Pill._ Off? To-day! You don't mean to tell me your chief is such an inconsiderate old ruffian as to expect you to travel back to your TOMMIES on the Sabbath! You could wait till to-morrow if you _wanted_ to. Come now!

_Capt. Thick._ Perhaps--only, you see, I _don't_ want to.

_Pill._ Well, tastes differ. A cross-country journey in a slow train, with unlimited opportunities of studying the Company's bye-laws and traffic arrangements at several admirably ventilated junctions, is not my own idea of the best way to spend a cheery Sunday, that's all.

_Capt. Thick._ (_gloomily_). Daresay it will be about as cheery as stoppin' on here, if it comes to that.

_Pill._ I admit we were most of us a wee bit chippy at breakfast. The Bard conversed--but he seemed to diffuse a gloom somehow. Shut you up once or twice in a manner that might almost be described as d--d offensive.

_Capt. Thick._ Don't know what you all saw in what he said that was so amusin'. Confounded rude _I_ thought it!

_Pill._ Don't think anyone _was_ amused--unless it was Lady MAISIE. By the way, he might perhaps have selected a happier topic to hold forth to Sir RUPERT on than the scandalous indifference of large landowners to the condition of the rural labourer. Poor dear old boy, he stood it wonderfully, considering. Pity the Countess breakfasted upstairs; she'd have enjoyed herself. However, he had a very good audience in little Lady MAISIE.

_Capt. Thick._ I do hate a chap that jaws at breakfast.... _Where_ did you say she was?

_Lady Maisie's voice_ (_outside, in Conservatory_). Yes, you really ought to see the Orangery and the Elizabethan Garden, Mr. BLAIR. If you will be on the terrace in about five minutes, I could take you round myself. I must go and see if I can get the keys first.

_Pill._ If you want to say good-bye, old fellow, now's your chance!

_Capt. Thick._ It--it don't matter. She's engaged. And, look here, you needn't mention that I was askin' for her.

_Pill._ Of course, old fellow, if you'd rather not. (_He glances at him._) But I say, my dear old chap, if _that_'s how it is with you, I don't quite see the sense of chucking it up _already_, don't you know. No earthly affair of mine, I know; still, if I _could_ manage to stay on, I would, if I were _you_.

_Capt. Thick._ Hang it all, PILLINER, do you suppose _I_ don't know when the game's up! If it was any _good_ stayin' on---- And besides, I've said good-bye to Lady C., and all that. No, it's too late now.

_Tredwell_ (_at the door_). Excuse me, Sir, but if you're going by the 10.40, you haven't any too much time.

_Pill._ (_to himself, after_ Captain THICKNESSE _has hurried out_). Poor old chap, he does seem hard hit! Pity he's not Lady MAISIE'S sort. Though what she can see in that long-haired beggar----! Wonder when VIVIAN SPELWANE intends to come down; never knew her miss breakfast before.... What's that rustling?... Women! I'll be off, or they'll nail me for church before I know it.

[_He disappears hastily in the direction of the Smoking Room as_ Lady CANTIRE and Mrs. CHATTERIS _enter_.

_Lady Cantire._ Nonsense, my dear, no walk at all; the church is only just across the park. My brother RUPERT always goes, and it pleases him to see the Wyvern pew as full as possible. I seldom feel equal to going myself, because I find the necessity of allowing pulpit inaccuracy to pass without a protest gets too much on my nerves; but my daughter will accompany you. You'll have just time to run up and get your things on.

_Mrs. Chatteris_ (_with arch significance_). I don't _fancy_ I shall have the pleasure of your daughter's society this morning. I just met her going to get the garden keys; I think she has promised to show the grounds to----Well, I needn't mention _whom_. Oh dear me, I hope I'm not being indiscreet _again!_

_Lady Cant._ I make a point of never interfering with my daughter's proceedings, and you can easily understand how natural it is that such old friends as they have always been----

_Mrs. Chatt._ Really? I _thought_ they seemed to take a great pleasure in one another's society. It's quite romantic. But I must rush up and get my bonnet on if I'm to go to church. (_To herself, as she goes out._) So she _was_ "Lady Grisoline," after all! If I was her mother---- But dear Lady CANTIRE is so advanced about things.

_Lady Cant._ (_to herself_). Darling MAISIE! He'll be Lord DUNDERHEAD before very long. How sensible and sweet of her! And I was quite uneasy about them last night at dinner; they scarcely seemed to be talking to each other at all. But there's a great deal more in dear MAISIE than one would imagine.

_Sir Rupert_ (_outside_). We're rather proud of our church, Mr. UNDERSHELL--fine old monuments and brasses, if you care about that sort of thing. Some of us will be walking over to service presently, if you would like to----

_Undershell_ (_outside--to himself_). And lose my _tête-à-tête_ with Lady MAISIE! Not exactly! (_Aloud._) I am afraid, Sir RUPERT, that I cannot conscientiously----

_Sir Rup._ (_hastily_). Oh, very well, very well; do exactly as you like about it, of course. I only thought----(_To himself._) Now that _other_ young chap would have gone!

_Lady Cant._ RUPERT, who is that you are talking to out there? I don't recognise his voice, somehow.

_Sir Rup._ (_entering with_ UNDERSHELL). Ha, ROHESIA, you've come down, then? slept well, I hope. I was talking to a gentleman whose acquaintance I know you will be very happy to make--at last. This is the genuine celebrity _this_ time. (_To_ UNDERSHELL.) Let me make you known to my sister, Lady CANTIRE, Mr. UNDERSHELL. (_As_ Lady CANTIRE _glares interrogatively._) Mr. CLARION BLAIR, ROHESIA, author of hum--ha--_Andromache_.

_Lady Cant._ I thought we were given to understand last night that Mr. SPURRELL--Mr. BLAIR--you must pardon me, but it's really so very confusing--that the writer of the--ah--volume in question had already left Wyvern.

_Sir Rup._ Well, my dear, you see he is still here--er--fortunately for us. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave Mr. BLAIR to entertain you; got to speak to TREDWELL about something.

[_He hurries out._

_Und._ (_to himself_). This must be Lady MAISIE'S mamma. Better be civil to her, I suppose, but I can't stay here and entertain her long! (_Aloud._) Lady CANTIRE, I--er--have an appointment for which I am already a little late; but before I go, I should like to tell you how much pleasure it has given me to know that my poor verse has won your approval; appreciation from----

_Lady Cant._ I'm afraid you must have been misinformed, Mr.--a--BLAIR. There are so many serious publications claiming attention in these days of literary over-production that I have long made it a rule to read no literature of a lighter order that has not been before the world for at least ten years. I may be mistaken, but I infer from your appearance that your own work must be of a considerably more recent date.

_Und._ (_to himself_). If she imagines she's going to snub Me----! (_Aloud._) Then I was evidently mistaken in gathering from some expressions in your daughter's letter that----

_Lady Cant._ Entirely. You are probably thinking of some totally different person, as my daughter has never mentioned having written to you, and is not in the habit of conducting _any_ correspondence without my full knowledge and approval. I think you said you had some appointment; if so, pray don't consider yourself under any necessity to remain.

_Und._ You are very good; I will not. (_To himself, as he retires._) Awful old lady, that! I quite thought she would know all about that letter, or I should never have---- However, I said nothing to compromise anyone, luckily!

_Lady Culverin_ (_entering_). Good morning, ROHESIA. So glad you felt equal to coming down. I was almost afraid--after _last night_, you know.

_Lady Cant._ (_offering a cold cheekbone for salutation_). I am in my usual health, thank you, ALBINIA. As to last night, if you _must_ ask a literary Socialist down here, you might at least see that he is received with common courtesy. You may, for anything _you_ can tell, have advanced the Social Revolution ten years in a single evening!

_Lady Culv._ My _dear_ ROHESIA! If you remember, it was you yourself who----!

_Lady Cant._ (_closing her eyes_). I am in no condition to _argue_ about it, ALBINIA. The slightest exercise of your own common sense would have shown you----But there, no great harm has been done, fortunately, so let us say no more about it. I have something more agreeable to talk about. I've every reason to hope that MAISIE and dear GERALD THICKNESSE----

_Lady Culv._ (_astonished_). MAISIE? But I thought GERALD THICKNESSE spoke as if----!

_Lady Cant._ Very possibly, my dear. I have always refrained from giving him any encouragement, and I wouldn't put any pressure upon dear MAISIE for the world--still, I have my feelings as a mother, and I can't deny that, with such prospects as he has now, it _is_ gratifying for me to think that they may be coming to an understanding together at this very moment; she is showing him the grounds; which I always think are the great charm of Wyvern, so _secluded_!

_Lady Culv._ (_puzzled_). Together! At this very moment! But--but surely GERALD has _gone_?

_Lady Cant._ Gone! What nonsense, ALBINIA! Where in the world should he have gone to?

_Lady Culv._ He _was_ leaving by the 10.40, I know. For Aldershot. I ordered the cart for him, and he said good-bye after breakfast. He seemed so dreadfully down, poor fellow, that I quite fancied from what he said that MAISIE must have----

_Lady Cant._ Impossible, my dear, quite impossible! I tell you he is _here_. Why, only a few minutes ago, Mrs. CHATTERIS was telling me---- Ah, here she is to speak for herself. (_To_ Mrs. CHATTERIS, _who appears, arrayed for public service._) Mrs. CHATTERIS, did I, or did I _not_, understand you to say just now that my daughter MAISIE----?

_Mrs. Chatt._ (_alarmed_). But, _dear_ Lady CANTIRE, I had no idea you would disapprove. Indeed you seemed----And really, though she certainly takes an interest in him, I'm sure--_almost_ sure--there can be nothing serious--at present.

_Lady Cant._ Thank you, my dear, I merely wished for an answer to my question. And you see, ALBINIA, that GERALD THICKNESSE can hardly have gone yet, since he is walking about the grounds with MAISIE.

_Mrs. Chatt._ Captain THICKNESSE? But he _has_ gone, Lady CANTIRE! I saw him start. I didn't mean _him_.

_Lady Cant._ Indeed? then I shall be obliged if you will say who it is you _did_ mean.

_Mrs. Chatt._ Why, only her old friend and admirer--that little poet man, Mr. BLAIR.

_Lady Cant._ (_to herself_). And I actually _sent_ him to her! (_Rising in majestic wrath._) ALBINIA, whatever comes of this, remember I shall hold _you_ entirely responsible!

[_She sweeps out of the room; the other two ladies look after her, and then at one another, in silent consternation._

* * * * *

THE WHIMS OF AMPHITRYON.

Isn't our good friend of the _P. M. G._ a little extravagant with his culinary raptures? However, we will not be outdone. If he rhapsodises the "Magnificent Mushroom," we have discovered a still more exalting theme, which, taking "whelk" as pronounced, we will call

THE WITCHERY OF THE WHELK.

Would you learn the divinest glory of a goddess among molluscs? Would you note the gastronomic charms of a succulent sea-nymph? Ostracise, then, from your table the blue-point impostor that foists his bearded banality on the faithful elect. Let the cult of that lusty Titan, the Limpet, sink awhile into the limbo of outworn idolatries. Forbear, if you are wise, to hymn the stern masculinity of the Mussel, gregarious demi-god but taciturn, hermetically sealed within the wilful valves of a sulky self-effacement. And let that other fakir of the sea-marge, the fantastic and Pharisaic Scallop, ply his Eleusinian rites, unrevered by the devout and metaphor-mixing epicure. Rather let it be ours to celebrate, though baldest prose were all-insufficient, the allurements of a pandemic Aphrodite, the seductive Whitechapel Whelk, and the coy grace of her sister, the wanton Winkle of Rosherville.

Let us take the first--assume that the siren is yours, then consider how fitliest she shall be dressed. And here it shall be seen whether you have true chivalry and romance in your soul, or whether you grovel in mere sensual _gourmandise_. What says Master BILL NUPKINS, master-cook to the Blue Pig chop-house in Skittle-alley? Is there not an idyllic flavour of Cocaigne, a very fervour of simplicity about his spelling which goes straight to the gizzard of the whelk-worshipper? Listen to his wise counsel on whelks _à la_ Shoreditch:--

"Tyke three 'aputh of whilks, 'Erne By sort fer choice, and chuck 'em wiv a saveloy and a kipper into a sorcepan, if you can nick one from a juggins. Bile 'em till they're green, and add 'arf a glorss of unsweetened, tho it's a pity to wyste it. If toimes is 'ard, the kids and the missus can 'ave the rinsings, or go wivout. Taike my tip, and don't you be a bloomin' mug. You can blyme well stick to the juggins' sorcepan. You may, I dessay, raise arf a dollar on it." There speaks the true _gourmet_, with single-hearted straight-forward egotism, worthy of a City alderman, in all the glory of a civic banquet. To none but an artist in guttlery would that touch of genius about the kids and the missus occur.

Again, disdain not the sweetly subtle recipes and romantic fancies that you may gather during your sojourn at Colney Hatch. For there, far from the dull Philistinism of house-dinners and fried-fish shops, with all wild Mænad orgies may your divinity be adored. Learn but one magic formula, and you shall see the wizard-working of your incantation, as, like an enchantress herself bewitched, she assumes you an ensorceled, faery shape. Here, mark you, is this potent spell, culled from the inspired lips of a frenzied _chef_.

_To Make Whelk Fritters._--Take one ripe whelk, draw and truss it until you are black in the face, tie up the forequarter with chickweed, sit down, and smoke a pipe; parboil anything you like for a few hours, or don't, if you don't care to; rub the _purée_ through a tammy (I don't know what this is); flavour with elbow-grease, egg-_faisandé_, mud-salad, and _bêtes noire_; dredge the gallimaufrey, and hold your nose; write some letters; the _vol-au-vent_ will then explode; wrap the pieces in an old sock, and bury for six weeks; take the 2.13 train to town, and have your hair cut, or pay some calls; then start again with another whelk, and proceed as before; but it is better to buy the fritters ready-made."

Is not this a lesson in devotion and perseverance? Rejoice greatly, and work out your sybaritic salvation.

And now that you have food for pious reflection, after a space you shall, to your exceeding great advantage, be further instructed in the liturgy of the Winkle.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"NOBODY LOOKING!"

["We will not evacuate Madagascar ... we will pursue the advantages we have gained ... Madagascar will become a flourishing French Colony. (_Cheers._) ... Our freedom of action is complete. There can be no foreign interference."--_M. Hanotaux on the French Expedition to Madagascar._]

_Lupus, on the prowl, loquitur:_--

Oh, those Malagasy muttons! They are homicidal beasts, Very dangerous, and desperate, and spiteful. Yet, taken young, they furnish quite the toothsomest of feasts, And my hunger for a meal is getting frightful. My "attitude towards them" is--oh! well, the usual one Of the Wolf toward the Lamb the wide world over; The "attitude" of the imprisoned Bear toward the Bun, And I'm _free_--as free as song's romantic Rover! Yes, I'm free, though not "afloat." There's a feeling in my throat That my foes might call omnivorous voracity, But it is a noble hunger; on nobility I doat; And black baa-lambs are so given to--pugnacity. So full of ill-will, too, in all circumstances! Yes, They turn nasty at the thought of being eaten up! But omelettes still need eggs, as they ever will, I guess, And the eggs have to be broken and well beaten up! You can't tie lambs to treaties, that's the worst of the false things, Though _you_ supply the treaty and the tether. They bolt from my Protectorate as though the brutes had wings, And they will _not_ trust a Wolf as a bell-wether! It is very, very vexing! In such quiet times as these, When "the elements of peace" are fairly uppermost, They ought to be so willing to do _anything_ to please. (_Gn-a-r-r!_ Do I want "redress," now, or my supper most?) All the world is doing homage to that peaceful creature, Bruin, Who is almost as unmilitant as _I_ am; Yet these Malagasy muttons would the _entente_ simply ruin. They're as fierce as the ferocious sheep of Siam. At the lovely "words of concord and of peace" they simply--_bleat_, A sound that fills the Dove--and me--with terror! They think, because he's gentle, that the Wolf they'll kill and eat. The Wolf must try to show them they're in error. A "policy of division and of discord" must inspire The world with horror and with apprehension. Of "watching o'er my interests and my honour," I shan't tire, And I think there's little fear of--intervention. All the other brutes are busy at their several little games, Inspired by various--peaceful--emulations! These rivalries--of peace--will not set the world in flames, Or "compromise" relations between nations. So I think while no one's looking, I may drop down on these sheep With moral and magnanimous severity. Ah! there's a black-faced baa-lamb! On her track I'll slowly creep, I can go with boldness, though "without temerity." A peaceful time like this is my time to make a pounce; The dogs are all asleep, there's no one looking. Ah! there's nothing like a blend of magnanimity and bounce. _Yum-yum!_ 'Tis a choice morsel, scarce needs cooking; She comes this way, amusingly unmindful of her fate. Aha! my Hova lambkin, I shall have you, I shall eat you up! There's no one will object, until too late, There's no one near will trouble take to save you!

[_Prowls on._

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.

THE L. C. C. AGAIN.--Is it possible that the Government is about to back up the London County Council in another attack on one of our time-hallowed institutions? I see that Mr. ASQUITH told a deputation that "one of the first acts of a Local Authority, if it had the power, would be to abolish the Ring." What on earth has a Local Authority to do with the mode in which marriages are celebrated? Englishmen should rise in their thousands to defend the wedding-ring, symbolising as it does the sanctity of the nuptial tie, and should hurl from power a Government which is about to hand us over, fingers and souls, to a tyrannical set of County Council busybodies. Mr. ASQUITH went on to talk rather disconnectedly, it seems to me, about gambling; perhaps he holds the cheap modern view that "Marriage is a Lottery." But I want to know why a Home Secretary meddles with subjects of this sort? And how long is this conspiracy between a Radical Ministry and the L. C. C. to be allowed to continue?

NOT TO BE CAUGHT NAPPING.

* * * * *

MORE SHE-NOTES.

(_By_ IOPNA, _Author of "A Yellow Plaster."_)