Volume 93 — VOCES POPULI.

Scene—An Italian Restaurant—anywhere in the Metropolis. Only a few of the small dining-tables are occupied as Scene opens. Near the buffet is a small lift communicating with the kitchen, and by the lift a speaking-tube.

Enter an Adorer with his Adored; he leads the way down the centre of the room, flushed and jubilant—he has not been long engaged, and this is the very first time he has dined with Her like this.

Adorer (beaming). Where would you like to sit, Pussy?

Pussy (a fine young woman—but past the kitten stage). Oh, it's all the same to me!

Adorer (catching an aggrieved note in her tone). Why, you don't really think I'd have kept you waiting if I could help it? There's always extra work on Foreign Post nights! (Pussy turns away and arranges hat before mirror). Waiter! (A Waiter who has been reading the "Globe" in the corner, presents himself with Menu.) What shall we have to begin with, eh, Pussy?

[The Waiter, conceiving himself appealed to, disclaims the responsibility with a shrug, and privately reflects that these stiff Englishmen can be strangely familiar at times.

Pussy. Oh, I don't feel as if I cared much about anything—now.

Adorer. Well, I've ordered Vermicelli Soup, and Sole au gratin. Now, you must try and think what you'd like to follow. (Tentatively.) A Cutlet?

Pussy (with infinite contempt for such want of originality). A Cutlet—the idea!

Adorer (abashed). I thought perhaps—but look down the list. (Pussy glances down it with eyes which she tries to render uninterested.) "Vol au vent à l' Herbaliste,"—that looks as if it would be rather good. Shall we try that?

Pussy. You may if you like—I shan't touch it myself.

Adorer. Well, look here, then, "Rognons sautés Venézienne,"—Kidneys, you know—you like kidneys.

Pussy (icily). Do I? I was not aware of it.

Adorer. Come—it's for you to say. (Reads from list.) "Châteaubriand Bordelaise," "Jugged Hare and Jelly," "Salmi of Partridge." (Pussy, who is still suffering from offended dignity, repudiates all these suggestions with scorn and contumely.) Don't like any of them? Well, (helplessly) can't you think of anything you would like?

Pussy. Nothing—except—(with decision)—a Cutlet.

Adorer (relieved by this condescension). The very thing! (Tenderly.) We will both have Cutlets.

Waiter (who has been waiting in dignified submission). Two Porzion Cutlet, verri well—enni Pottidoes?

Pussy (sharply). Potted what?

Adorer (to Waiter). Yes. (To Pussy, aside, in same breath.) Potatoes, darling. (The Waiter suspects he is being trifled with.) Do you prefer them sautés, fried, or in chips,—or what?

Pussy (with the lofty indifference of an ethereal nature). I'm sure I don't care how they're done!

Adorer. Then—Potato-chips, Waiter.

Pussy (as Waiter departs). Not for me—I'll have mine sautés!

Adorer (when they are alone, leaning across table). I've been looking forward to this all day!

Pussy (unsympathetically). Didn't you have any lunch then?

Adorer. I don't mean to the dinner—but to having you to talk with, quite alone by our two selves.

Pussy (who has her dignity to consider). Oh, I daresay. I wish you'd do something for me, Joshua.

Adorer (fervently). Only tell me what it is, darling!

Pussy. It's only to get me that Graphic—I'm sure that gentleman over there has done with it.

[The Adorer fetches it with a lengthening face: Pussy retires behind the "Graphic," leaving him outside in solitude. At length he asserts himself by fetching "Punch," (which he happens to have seen) from an adjoining table. A Bachelor dining lonely and unloved on the opposite side of the room, watches them with growing sense of consolation.

At the Speaking-Tube.

Waiter. Una voce poco fa maccaroni! (At least, it sounds something like this. A little cupboard arrives by the lift containing a dish which the Waiter hastens to receive. The new arrival is apparently of a disappointing nature,—he returns it indignantly, and rushes back to tube.) La ci darem la mano curri rabbito Gorgonzola!

A Voice (from bottom of lift—argumentatively). Batti, batti; la donna é mobile risotto Milanaise.

Waiter (losing his temper). Altro! Sul campo della gloria vermicelli!

The Voice (ironically). Parla tele d'amor o cari fior mulligatawni?

Waiter (scathingly). Salve di mora casta e pura entrecote sauce piquante crême à l'orange cotelettes pommes sautés basta-presto!

[Corks up tube with the air of a man who has had the best of it.

At another Table.

Two Brothers are seated here, who may be distinguished for the purposes of dialogue as the Good Brother and the Bad Brother respectively. The Good B. appears (somewhat against his will) to be acting as host, though he restricts his own refreshment to an orange, which he eats with an air of severe reproof. The Bad B. who has a shifty sullen look and a sodden appearance generally, is devouring cold meat with the intense solemnity of a person conscious of being more than three parts drunk. Both attempt to give their remarks an ordinary conversational tone.

The Bad B. (suddenly, with his mouth full). Will you lend me five shillings?

The Good B. No, I won't. I see no reason why I should.

The B. B. (in a low passionate voice). Will you lend me five shillings?

The G. B. (endeavouring to maintain a virtuous calm). I don't think I will.

B. B. You've been giving money away all the afternoon to people after I asked you for some!

G. B. (roused). I was not. It's dashed impertinence of you to say such a thing as that. I'm sick of this dashed nonsense—sick and tired of it! If I hadn't some principle left still, I should have gone to the East long ago!

B. B. I'm glad you didn't. I want five shillings.

G. B. Want five shillings! You keep on saying that, and never say what you want it for. You must have some object. Do you want it to go and get drunk on?

B. B. (with a beery persistence). Lend me five shillings.

G. B. (reflectively). I don't intend to.

B. B. (in a tone of compromise). Then lend me a sovereign.

G. B. (changing the subject with a chilling hospitality). Would you like anything after that beef?

B. B. (doggedly). I should like five shillings.

G. B. (irrelevantly). Look here! I at once admit you've got more brain than I have.

B. B. (handsomely). Not at all—it's you that have got more brain than me.

G. B. (rejecting this overture suspiciously). I've more principle at any rate, and, to tell you the truth, I'm not going to put up with this dashed impertinent treatment any longer!

B. B. You're not, eh? Then lend me five shillings.

G. B. (desperately). Here, Waiter—bill. I pay for this gentleman.

Waiter (after adding up the items). One and four, if you please.

[The G. B. pays.

B. B. And dashed cheap too!

[A small Cook-boy in white comes up to Waiter and whispers.

Waiter. Ze boy say zat gentilman (pointing to B. B.) tell him to give twopence for him to ze Cook.

G. B. (austerely). I have nothing to do with that—he must settle it with him.

B. B. (with fierce indignation). It's a lie! I gave the boy the money. It was a penny!

Waiter (impassively). Ze boy say you did not give nosing.

B. B. (to G. B.). Be d——d! Don't you pay it—it's a rascally imposition! See, Garcong, I'll tell you in French. J'ai donné l'homme, le chef, doo soo (holding up two fingers) pour lui-même-à servir.

G. B. I'm sorry to have to say it—but I don't believe your story.

[To the B. B.

B. B. (rising). I'm going to have it out with Cook. (Lurches up to door leading to kitchen and exit. Sounds of altercation below. Re-enter B. B. pursued by Voice. B. B. turning at door.) What did you say?

Voice. I say you are dronken Ingelis pig, cochon, va!

B. B. Well,—it's just as well you didn't say any more. (Goes up to Waiter, confidentially). That man down there was mos' insultin'—mos' insultin'. But, there, I'll give you the penny—there it is. (Presses that coin into Waiter's hand and closes his fingers over it.) Put it in your pocket, quick—say no more 'bout it, Goo' ni'. Only—remember (pausing on threshold à la Charles the First) if anyone wantsh row—(with recollection of Duke's motto)—I'm here! That 'sh all. (To G. B.) I shall say goo' ni' to you outside.

[Exit B. B. unsteadily.

The G. B. (solemnly to Waiter). I tell you what it is—I'm ashamed of him. There, I am. I'm ashamed of him!

[He stalks after his Brother; sounds of renewed argument without, as Scene closes in.

Bacon Again.—An erudite student informs us that "the crest of Shakspeare's mother's family was a boar," so that there is something Baconian about the Immortal Bard.

À propos of the Welsh Gold Find.—Advice Gratis:—Beware of Welshers.

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