Volume 103 — AT A VEGETARIAN RESTAURANT.

Scene—"The Nebuchadnezzar's Head," in the City. Time—The luncheon hour. The interior, which is bright, and tastefully arranged, is crowded with the graminivorous of both sexes. Clerks of a literary turn devour "The Fortnightly" and porridge alternately, or discuss the comparative merits of modern writers. Lady-clerks lunch sumptuously and economically on tea and baked ginger-pudding. Trim Waitresses move about with a sweet but slightly mystic benignity, as conscious of conducting a dietetic mission to the dyspeptic.

A Vegetarian Fiancé (who has met his betrothed by appointment, and is initiating her into the mysteries). I wish you'd take something more than a mustard-and-cress roll, though, Louise—it gives you such a poor idea of the thing. (With honest pride.) You just see me put away this plate of porridge. At the "Young Daniel," where I usually lunch, they give you twice the quantity of stuff they do here.

Louise (admiringly). I'm so glad I've seen you lunch. Now I shall be able to fancy every day exactly what you are having.

Her Fiancé (to assist her imagination). Mind you, I don't always have porridge. Sometimes it's mushroom croquettes, or turnip and onion rissoles,—whatever's going. Now yesterday, for instance, I had——

[He details exactly what he had, and she listens to these moving episodes with the rapt interest of a Desdemona.

First Literary Clerk. No; but look here, you don't take my point. I'm not running down Swinburne—all I'm arguing is, he couldn't have written some of the things Browning did.

Second L. C. Of course not—when Browning had written them—that's nothing against him.

First L. C. (warmly). I'm not saying it is. I'm telling you the difference between the two men—now Browning, he makes you think!

Second L. C. He never made me think, that's all I know.

Third L. C. Nor yet me. Now, 'Erbert Spencer, he does make you think, if you like!

First L. C. Now you're getting on to something else. The grand fault I find with Swinburne, is——

Second L. C. Hold hard a bit. Have you read him?

Third L. C. Yes, let's 'ave that first. 'Ave you read 'im?

First L. C. (with dignity). I've read as much of him as I care to.

Second L. C. (aggressively). What have you read of his? Name it.

First L. C. I've read his Atlantis in Caledonia, for one thing.

Second L. C. (disappointed). Well, you don't deny there's poetry in that, do you?

First L. C. I don't call it poetry in the sense I call Walt Whitman poetry—certainly not.

Second L. C. There you touch a wider question—there's no rhyme in Whitman, to begin with.

First L. C. No more there is in Milton; but I suppose you'll admit he's a poet.

[And so on, until none of them is quite sure what he is arguing about exactly, though each feels he has got decidedly the best of it.

First Lady Clerk (at adjoining table, to Second L. C.). How excited those young men do get, to be sure. I do like to hear them taking up such intellectual subjects, though. Now, my brothers talk of nothing but horses, and music-halls, and football, and things like that.

Second L. C. (pensively). I expect it's the difference in food that accounts for it. I don't think I could care for a man that ate meat. Are you going to have another muffin, dear? I am.

An Elderly Lady, with short hair and spectacles (to Waitress). Can you bring me some eggs?

Waitress. Certainly, Madam. How would you like them done—à la cocotte?

"À la Cocotte?"

The E. L. (with severity). Certainly not. You will serve them respectably dressed, if you please!

Waitress (puzzled). We can give you "Convent eggs" if you prefer it.

The E. L. I never encourage superstition—poach them.

Enter a Vegetarian Enthusiast, with a Neophyte, to whom he is playing Amphitryon.

The Veg. Enth. (selecting a table with great care). Always like to be near the stove, and out of the draught. (The prettiest Waitress approaches, and greets him with a sacerdotal sweetness, as one of the Faith, while to the Neophyte—whom she detects, at a glance, as still without the pale—she is severely tolerant.) Now, what are you going to have? [Passing him the bill of fare.

The Neoph. (inspecting the document helplessly). Well, really, er—I think I'd better follow your lead.

The Veg. Enth. I generally begin with a plate of porridge myself—clears the palate, y'know.

The Neoph. (unpleasantly conscious that it wouldn't clear his ). I'm afraid that, at this time of day—to tell you the truth (with desperate candour), I never was a porridge lover.

[The Waitress regards him sorrowfully.

The Veg. Enth. Pity! Wholesomest thing you can take. More sustenance to the square inch in a pint of porridge than a leg of mutton. However (tolerantly), if you really won't, I can recommend the rice and prunes.

The Neoph. (feebly). I—I'd rather begin with something a little more——

Waitress (with a sad foreknowledge that she is casting pearls before a swine). We have "Flageolet Fritters and Cabbage," or "Parsnip Pie with grilled Potatoes"—both very nice.

The Neoph. (braving the unknown). I'll have some of this—er—"Cinghalese Stew." [He awaits the result in trepidation.

Customer (behind, dictating his bill). "What have I had?" Let me see. Braised turnip and bread sauce, fricassée of carrot and artichoke, tomato omelette, a jam roll, and a bottle of zoedone.

[The Waitress makes out his voucher accordingly, and awards it to him, with a bright smile of approval and encouragement.

The Enth. V. (who has overheard). A most excellent selection! That's a man, Sir, who knows how to live! Ha! here's my porridge. Will you give me some brown sugar with it, please? And—(to the N.)—there's your stew—smells good, eh?

The Neoph. (tasting it, and finding it a cunning compound of curried bananas and chicory). I—I like the smell—excellent indeed!

[He attacks the stew warily.

The Enth. Veg. (disposing of his porridge). There! Now I shall have some lentils and spinach with parsley sauce, and a Welsh rarebit to follow—and I think that will about do me. Will you—oh, you haven't finished your stew yet! By the way, what will you drink? I don't often indulge in champagne in the middle of the day; but it's my birthday—so I think we might venture on a bottle between us, eh?

The Neoph. (in whom the Cinghalese Stew has excited a lively thirst). By all means. I suppose you know the brands here?

The Veg. Enth. Only one brand—non-alcoholic, of course. Manufactured I believe, from—ah—oranges.

The Neoph. Exactly so. After all, I'd just as soon have bottled ale—if they keep it, that is.

The Veg. Enth. Any quantity of it. What shall it be? They've "Anti-Bass Beer," or "Spruce Stout;" or perhaps you'd like to try their "Pennyroyal Porter?" I'm rather partial to it myself—capital tonic!

The Neoph. I—I've no doubt of it. On second thoughts, if you don't mind, I'd rather have water. (To himself.) It doesn't look Vegetarian!

The Veg. Enth. (more heartily than ever). Just as you please, my boy. But you don't mean to say you've done!

The Neoph (earnestly). Indeed, I couldn't touch another morsel, really!

The Veg. Enth. I thought that stew looked satisfying; that's where it is, you see—a man can come here and get a thoroughly nutritious and filling meal for the trifling sum of fourpence—and yet you meet people who tell you Vegetarianism is a mere passing fad! It's a force that's making itself increasingly felt—you must be conscious of that yourself already?

The Neoph. (politely). Y-yes—but it's not at all unpleasant at present—really!

Enter a couple of Red-faced Customers from the country, who seat themselves.

First Redf. C. Well, I dunno how you 're feelin'—but I feel as if I could peck a bit.

Second Do. I can do wi' soom stokin' myself. Tidy soort of a place this. 'Ere, Missy!—(to one of the Waitresses, who awaits his commands with angelic patience) you may bring me and my friend a choomp chop a-piece, not too mooch doon, and a sorsedger, wi' two pots o' stout an' bitter—an' lo-ook sharp about it!

[Sensation—the Waitress gives them, gently, but firmly, to understand that these coarse and carnivorous propensities must be indulged elsewhere; whereupon they depart, rebuked and abashed, as Scene closes.