Part 5

MRS. ALL. That's like _my_ doctor; he always tells me, if he didn't keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no time. That's how I come to be here. I always run down at the end of every Season.

MRS. ARD. (_feeling that MRS. ALLBUTT can't be "anybody very particular" after all_). What--to Margate? Fancy! Don't you find you get tired of it? _I_ should.

MRS. ALL. (_with dignity_). I didn't say I always went to Margate. On the contrary, I have never been here before, and shouldn't be here now, if my doctor hadn't told me it was my only chance.

MRS. ARD. (_reassured_). I only came down here on my little girl's account. One of those nasty croupy coughs, you know, and hoops with it. But she's almost well already. I will say it's a wonderful air. Still, the worst of Margate is, one isn't likely to meet a soul one knows!

MRS. ALL. Well, that's the charm of it--to me. One has enough of that during the Season.

MRS. ARD. (_recognising the superiority of this view_). Indeed one has. What a whirl it has been to be sure!

MRS. ALL. The Season? Why, I never remember one with so little doing. Most of the best houses closed--hardly a single really smart party--one or two weddings--and that's positively all!

MRS. ARD. (_slightly crushed, in spite of a conviction_ _that--socially speaking--Balham has been rather more brilliant than usual this year_). Yes, that's very true. I suppose the Elections have put a stop to most things?

MRS. ALL. There never was much going on. _I_ should rather have said it was Marlborough House being shut up that made everything so dull from the first.

MRS. ARD. Ah, that _does_ make such a difference, doesn't it? (_She feels she must make an effort to recover lost ground._) I fully expected to be at Homburg this year.

MRS. ALL. Then you would have met Lady Neuraline Menthol. She _was_ ordered there, I happen to know.

MRS. ARD. Really, you don't say so? Lady Neuraline! Well, that's the first _I've_ heard of it. (_It is also the first time she has heard of her, but she trusts to be spared so humiliating an admission._)

MRS. ALL. It's a fact, I can assure you. You know her, perhaps?

MRS. ARD. (_who would dearly like to say she does, if she only dared_). Well, I can hardly say I exactly _know_ her. I know _of_ her. I've met her about, and so on. (_She tells herself this is quite as likely to be true as not._)

MRS. ALL. (_who of course does not know Lady Neuraline either_). Ah, she is a most delightful person--requires _knowing_, don't you know.

MRS. ARD. So many in her position do, don't they? (_So far as she is concerned--they all do._) You'd think it was haughtiness--but it's really only _manner_.

MRS. ALL. (_feeling that she can go ahead with safety now_). I have never found anything of _that_ sort in Lady Neuraline myself (_which is perfectly true._) She's rather odd and flighty, but _quite_ a dear. By the way, _how_ sad it is about those poor dear Chutneys--the Countess, don't you know!

MRS. ARD. Ah (_as if she knew all the rest of the family_), I don't know _her_ at all.

MRS. ALL. Such a sweet woman--but the trouble she's had with her eldest boy, Lord Mango! He married quite beneath him, you know, some girl from the provinces--not a county-family girl even.

MRS. ARD. (_shocked_). Dear, dear! _not_ a county family!

MRS. ALL. No; somebody quite common--I forget the name, but it was either Gherkin or Onion, or something of that sort. I was told they had been in Chili a good while. Poor Mango never had much taste, or he would never have got mixed up with such a set. Anyway, he's got himself into a terrible pickle. I hear Capsicums is actually to be sold to pay his debts.

MRS. ALL. You don't say so! Capsicums! Gracious!

MRS. ALL. Yes, _isn't_ it a pity! Such a lovely old place as it was, too--_the_ most comfortable house to stay at in all England; so beautifully _warm_! But it's dreadful to think of how the aristocracy are taking to marry out of their own set. Look at the Duke of Dragnet--married a Miss Duckweed--goodness only knows where he picked her up! but he got entangled somehow, and now his people are trying to get rid of her. I see so many of these cases. Well, I'm afraid I must wish you good evening--it's my time for retiring. (_Patronisingly._) I've quite enjoyed the conversation--such a pleasure in a place like this to come across a genial companion!

MRS. ARD. (_fluttered and flattered_). I'm sure you're exceedingly kind to say so, and I can say the same for myself. I hope we may become better acquainted. (_To herself, after MRS. ALLBUTT has departed._) I've quite taken to that woman--she's so thoroughly the lady, and moves in very high society, too. You can tell that from the way she talks. What's that paper on the table? (_She picks up a journal in a coloured wrapper._) "_Society Snippets, the Organ of the Upper Ten. One Penny._" The very thing I wanted. It's such a comfort to know who's who. (_She opens it and reads sundry paragraphs headed "Through the Keyhole."_) Now how funny this is! Here's the very same thing about the dulness of the Season that she said. That shows she must be really in it. And a note about Lady Neuraline being about to recruit at Homburg. And another about her reputation or eccentricity, and her "sweetness to the select few privileged to be her intimates." And here's all about Lord Mango, and what a pleasant house Capsicums is, and his marriage, and the Duke of Dragnet's, too. Her information was very correct, I must say! (_A light begins to break in upon her._) I wonder whether----but there--people of her sort wouldn't require to read the papers for such things.

[_Here the door opens, and MRS. ALLBUTT appears, in some embarrassment._

MRS. ALL. (_scrutinising the tables_). Oh, it's nothing. I thought I'd left something of mine here; it was only a paper--I see I was mistaken, don't trouble.

MRS. ARD. (_producing Society Snippets_). I expect it will be this. (_MRS. ALLBUTT'S face reveals her ownership._) I took it up, not knowing it was yours. (_Meaningly_.) It has some highly interesting information, I see.

MRS. ALL. (_slightly demoralised_). Oh, has it? I--I've not had time to glance at it yet. Pray don't let me deprive you of it. I dare say there's very little in it I don't know already.

MRS. ARD. So I should have thought. (_To herself, after MRS. ALLBUTT has retired in disorder._) Fancy that woman trying to take me in like that, and no more in Society than I am--if so much! However, I've found her out before going too far--luckily. And I've a good mind to take in this _Society Snippets_ myself--it certainly does improve one's conversation. She won't have it _all_ her own way _next_ time!

A TESTIMONIAL MANQUÉ.

(A SKETCH FROM THE SUBURBS.)

_THE ARGUMENT.--Mr. Hotspur Porpentine, a distinguished resident in the rising suburb of Jerrymere, has recently been awarded fourteen days' imprisonment, without the option of a fine, for assaulting a ticket-collector, who had offered him the indignity of requiring him to show his season-ticket at the barrier. The scene is a Second-Class Compartment, in which four of Mr. Porpentine's neighbours are discussing the affair during their return from the City._

MR. COCKCROFT (_warmly_). I say, Sir--and I'm sure all here will bear me out--that such a sentence was a scandalous abuse of justice. As a near neighbour, and an intimate friend of Porpentine's, I don't 'esitate to assert that he has done nothing whatever to forfeit our esteem. He's a quick-tempered man, as we're all aware, and to be asked by some meddlesome official to show his season, after travelling on the line constantly for years, and leaving it at home that morning--why--_I_ don't blame him if he _did_ use his umbrella!

MR. BALCH (_sympathetically_). Nor I. Porpentine's a man I've always had a very 'igh respect for ever since I came into this neighbourhood. I've always found him a good feller, and a good neighbour.

MR. FILKINS (_deferentially_). I can't claim to be as intimate with him as some here; but, if it isn't putting myself too far forward to say so, I very cordially beg to say ditto to those sentiments.

MR. SIBBERING (_who has never "taken to" Porpentine_). Well, he's had a sharp lesson,--there's no denying that.

MR. COCKCR. Precisely, and it occurs to me that when he--ah--returns to public life, it would be a kind thing, and a graceful thing, and a thing he would--ah--appreciate in the spirit it was intended, if we were to present him with some little token of our sympathy and unabated esteem--what do you fellers think?

MR. FILK. A most excellent suggestion, if my friend here will allow me to say so. I, for one, shall be proud to contribute to so worthy an object.

MR. BALCH. I don't see why we shouldn't present him with an address--'ave it illuminated, and framed and glazed; sort of thing he could 'ang up and 'and down to his children after him as an _heirloom_, yi-know.

MR. SIBB. I don't like to throw cold water on any proposition, but if you want _my_ opinion, I must say I see no necessity for making a public thing out of it in that way.

MR. COCKCR. I'm with Sibbering there. The less fuss there is about it, the better Porpentine'll be pleased. My idea is to give him something of daily use--a _useful_ thing, yi-know.

MR. BALCH. Useful _or_ ornamental. Why not his own portrait? There's many an artist who would do him in oils, and guarantee a likeness, frame included, for a five-pound note.

MR. SIBB. If it's to be like Porpentine, it certainly won't be _ornamental_, whatever else it is.

MR. FILK. It can't be denied that he is remarkably plain in the face. We'd better, as our friend Mr. Cockcroft here proposes, make it something of daily use--a good serviceable silk umbrella now--that's _always_ appropriate.

MR. SIBB. To make up for the one he broke over the collector's head, eh?--that's _appropriate_ enough!

MR. COCKCR. No, no; you mean well, Filkins, but you must see yourself, on reflection, that there would be a certain want of--ah--good taste in giving him a thing like that under the circumstances. I should suggest something like a hatstand--a handsome one, of course. I happen to know that he has nothing in the passage at present but a row of pegs.

MR. SIBB. I should have thought he'd been taken down enough pegs already.

MR. FILK. (_who resents the imputation upon his taste_). I can't say what the width of Mr. Porpentine's passage may be, never having been privileged with an invitation to pass the threshold, but unless it's wider than ours is, he couldn't get a hatstand in if he tried, and if my friend Cockcroft will excuse the remark, I see no sense--to say nothing of good taste, about which perhaps I mayn't be qualified to pass an opinion--in giving him an article he's got no room for.

MR. COCKCR. (_with warmth_). There's room enough in Porpentine's passage for a whole host of hatstands, if that's all, and I know what I'm speaking about. I've been in and out there often enough. I'm--ah--a regular tame cat in that house. But if you're against the 'atstand, I say no more--we'll waive it. How would it do if we gave him a nice comfortable easy-chair--something he could sit in of an evening, yi-know?

MR. SIBB. A touchy chap like Porpentine would be sure to fancy we thought he wanted something soft after a hard bench and a plank bed--you can't go and give him _furniture_!

MR. COCKCR. (_with dignity_). There's a way of doing all things. I wasn't proposing to go and chuck the chair _at_ him--he's a sensitive feller in many respects, and he'd feel _that_, I grant you. He can't object to a little present of that sort just from four friends like ourselves.

MR. BALCH (_with a falling countenance_). Oh! I thought it was to be a general affair, limited to a small sum, so that all who liked could join in. I'd no notion you meant to keep it such a private matter as all that.

MR. FILK. Nor I. And, knowing Mr. Porpentine so slightly as I do, he might consider it presumption in me, making myself so prominent in the matter--or else I'm sure----

MR. COCKCR. There's no occasion for anyone to be prominent, except myself. You leave it entirely in my 'ands. I'll have the chair taken up some evening to Porpentine's house on a 'andcart, and drop in, and just lead up to it carelessly, if you understand me, then go out and wheel the chair in, make him try it--and there you _are_.

MR. BALCH. There _you_ are, right enough; but I don't see where _we_ come in, exactly.

MR. FILLK. If it's to be confined to just us four, I certingly think we ought _all_ to be present at the presentation.

MR. COCKCR. That would be just the very thing to put a man like Porpentine out--a crowd dropping in on him like that! I know his ways, and, seeing I'm providing the chair----

MR. BALCH (_relieved_). _You_ are? That's different, of course; but I thought you said that we four----

MR. COCKCR. I'm coming to that. As the prime mover, and a particular friend of Porpentine's, it's only right and fair I should bear the chief burden. There's an easy-chair I have at home that only wants re-covering to be as good as new, and all you fellers need do is to pay for 'aving it nicely done up in velvet, or what not, and we'll call it quits.

MR. BALCH. I daresay; but I like to know what I'm letting myself in for; and there's upholsterers who'll charge as much for doing up a chair as would furnish a room.

MR. FILK. I--I shouldn't feel justified, with my family, and, as, comparatively speaking, a recent resident, in going beyond a certain limit, and unless the estimate could be kep' down to a moderate sum, I really-----

MR. SIBB. (_unmasking_). After all, you know, I don't see why we should go to any expense over a stuck-up, cross-grained chap like Porpentine. It's well-known he hasn't a good word to say for us Jerrymere folks, and considers himself above the lot of us!

MR. BALCH and MR. FILK. I'm bound to say there's a good deal in what Sibbering says. Porpentine's never shown himself what _I_ should call sociable.

MR. COCKCR. I've never found him anything but pleasant myself, whatever he may be to others. I'm not denying he's an _exclusive_ man, and a _fastidious_ man, but he's been 'arshly treated, and _I_ should have thought this was an occasion--if ever there was one--for putting any private feelings aside, and rallying round him to show our respect and sympathy. But of course if you're going to let petty jealousies of this sort get the better of you, and leave me to do the 'ole thing myself, _I've_ no objection. I daresay he'll value it all the more coming from me.

MR. SIBB. Well, he _ought_ to, after the shameful way he's spoken of you to a friend of mine in the City, who shall be nameless. You mayn't know, and if not, it's only right I should mention it, that he complained bitterly of having to change his regular train on your account, and said (I'm only repeating his words, mind you), that Jerrymere was entirely populated by bores, but you were the worst of the lot, and your jabber twice a day was more than he _could_ stand. He mayn't have _meant_ anything by it, but it was decidedly uncalled for.

MR. COCKCR. (_reddening_). I 'ope I'm above being affected by the opinion any man may express of my conversation--especially a cantankerous feller, who can't keep his temper under decent control. A feller who goes and breaks his umbrella over an unoffending official's 'ead like that, and gets, very properly, locked up for it! Jerrymere society isn't good enough for him, it seems. He won't be troubled with much of it in future--_I_ can assure him! Upon my word, now I come to think of it, I'm not sure he shouldn't be called upon for an explanation of how he came to be travelling without a ticket; it looks very much to me as if he'd been systematically defrauding the Company!

MR. FILK. Well, I didn't like to say so before; but that's been _my_ view all along!

MR. BALCH. And mine.

MR. SIBB. Now perhaps you understand why we'd rather leave it to you to give him the arm-chair.

MR. COCKCR. I give a man an arm-chair for bringing disgrace on the 'ole of Jerrymere! I'd sooner break it up for firewood! Whoever it was that first started all this tomfoolery about a testimonial, I'm not going to 'ave _my_ name associated with it, and if you'll take _my_ advice, you'll drop it once and for all, for it's only making yourselves ridiculous!

[_His companions, observing that he is in a somewhat excited condition, consider it advisable to change the subject._

THE MODEL DEMOCRACY.

"I think you left directions that you were to be thawed in 199-- precisely?" said the stranger politely. "Allow me to introduce myself--NUMBER SEVEN MILLION AND SIX. If you feel equal to the effort, and would care to see the vast improvements in our social condition since the close of the benighted Nineteenth Century, I shall be pleased to conduct you."

MR. PUNCH then began to realise that he had had himself frozen by a patent process just a hundred years ago, and that he had returned to animation in time for the close of the marvellous Twentieth Century; so he prepared, in much curiosity and excitement, to accompany his guide.

"By the way," observed the latter, "you must not be annoyed if your--hem--habiliments, which we are unaccustomed to nowadays, should attract some attention."

Singularly enough, MR. PUNCH had just begun to feel a certain embarrassment at the prospect of being seen in Piccadilly or Regent Street in the company of a person attired in grey cellular pyjamas, a drab blanket, and a glazed pot hat. However, on reaching the street, he found that every man he met was similarly clad, while his own costume--which, in his original century, would only have been remarkable for its unimpeachable taste--was, in this, the subject of universal and invidious comment.

"You'll have your regulation pot hat and pyjamas served out to you in time!" said MR. SEVEN MILLION AND SIX encouragingly. "Then no one will say anything to you. In these days we resent anything that tends to confer an artificial distinction on any man. Surnames, for example, which occasionally suggested superiority of birth, have long been abolished, and official numbers substituted. You seem to be looking for something you do not see?" he added, noting a certain blankness and disappointment in MR. PUNCH'S expressive countenance.

"I was only wondering why I saw no signs of any new and marvellous inventions at present," said MR. PUNCH. "I rather expected to see the air full of electric trains, manageable balloons, or coveys of citizens darting about on mechanical pinions. But I see none, and even more people go on foot than in my own time."

"Inventions, I take it," was the reply, "only served to enrich the Capitalist, and save time or labour. Now we have no Capitalists and no riches, and no reason for hurrying anywhere, while it would be absurd and useless to lessen the amount of manual labour when, even as it is, there is scarcely enough to keep everyone employed for six hours a day."

"Why are all the women I see dressed exactly alike in navy-blue woollen frocks and coal-scuttle bonnets?" MR. PUNCH inquired presently. "Surely they can't _all_ be members of the Sal----"

"A uniform costume was decreed by plebiscite some years ago," replied his mentor, promptly. "Any real equality amongst women was found hopeless so long as some were able to render themselves exceptionally attractive by a distinctive toilette."

"What!" exclaimed MR. PUNCH, "did all the pretty women consent to such a sacrifice?"

"They were in a very decided minority, even then," said MR. SEVEN MILLION AND SIX; "and it is not our way to think much of minorities. At present, owing no doubt to an enactment which penalised every pretty woman by compelling her to wear blue goggles and a respirator, feminine beauty is practically extinct."

MR. PUNCH could not restrain a sigh. They were now entering a somewhat gloomy thoroughfare, between massive blocks of buildings, with large doors and innumerable small windows, which towered into the sky on either hand.

"I seem to miss the shop-fronts," he said aloud, "with their plate-glass, and all their glitter and luxury. What has become of them all?"

"Such necessaries as the citizen requires," said his companion, "are procured at the Public Storehouses, which you see around you, by the simple method of presenting a ticket. The luxuries you refer to were only procurable by the rich, and nobody is rich now. If you will come with me, I will take you over one of the State Dwelling-houses, and show you one of the suites of rooms. Every citizen has a room; or, if married, a couple of rooms, exactly the same shape and size as those of his fellows.... Beautifully clean, you see!" he remarked, complacently, as he threw open one of the doors. "Neat whitewashed walls, plain deal furniture, nice holland blinds--what more can any reasonable citizen want in the way of comfort?"

"There used to be a celebrated poet in my time," said MR. PUNCH, with some hesitation, "Who designed and sold very beautiful upholster--tapestry, wall-papers, curtains, and so on. I fancy _he_ held socialistic views. But I see no trace of his work _here_."

"I think I know whom you refer to," was the reply. "The community would doubless have been glad of his company's services if they would only have contracted to supply every citizen with precisely the same pattern and quality of their manufactures at, say, a pork-pie a yard, but, for some reason, the firm could not see their way to it, and the industry declined; which is not to be regretted, for it certainly tended to foster individualism."

"It is curious," said MR. PUNCH, when they were outside again, "that I have not as yet seen a single policeman."

"Not at all curious. We _have_ none. Crime simply proceeded from the galling sense of social inequality. Consequently, as soon as that was removed, Justice, with all its machinery, became an anachronism."

"I think," said MR. PUNCH, presently, "I should like to take a stroll in Hyde Park."

"That," said his guide, "has not been possible for at least fifty years. All the parks are now cut up into three-acre allotments, where every able-bodied citizen does an hour's compulsory spade-work once a fortnight. A most admirable reform, as you will agree!"

"Capital!" gasped MR. PUNCH, with an anticipatory pain in his back. "Then I am curious to see what strides have been made by your modern painters. Could you take me to a picture-gallery?"

"There are _no_ modern painters. It is perhaps a pity--but quite unavoidable. It was an obvious injustice that, when all citizens had to perform their share of more or less distasteful manual labour, there should be any one class that earned a living by work in which they took a positive pleasure. So that every artist had to do his six hours' stone-breaking or brick-making; or what not, as an antecedent condition of being permitted to paint at all, and naturally the State declined to provide him with paints and brushes at the expense of the community. A few artists persisted for a while, from sheer love of the thing; but as no picture fetched more than a pound of sausages, and the average price was a bowl of porridge, they found it expedient to turn to some more useful occupation. And it is undeniable that they contribute more to the resources of the commonwealth by wielding a trowel or a broom than by messing about with brushes and paint. As a concession to hereditary instinct, however, their descendants are still set apart as State white-washers."

"And the drama?" MR. PUNCH inquired next. "How is _that_ getting on? Has the New Dramatist made his appearance at last?"