Volume 93 — VOCES POPULI.

Scene—A Promenade Concert. Interval between Parts I. and II. Crowd collecting before Platform.

Highly Respectable Matron (to female Friend). As to being beautiful, it's not for me to say, but they're clean-limbed, healthy children, thank Heaven! and what more do you want? (The Friend makes a complimentary protest.) Well, it may be so; but, to come back to her. I don't like her present home so well as I did her first—not so tasty, to my mind. She's got nice things about her, though, I will say—a nice sideboard, a nice ... (Inventory follows here.)

The Friend (darkly). All the same, it's a constant wonder to me how she can ever bring herself to sleep in that bed!

The H. R. M. I couldn't myself; but (charitably) we've not all the same feelings. (Crush increases; Female Promenader with very yellow hair passes, with apologies.) "Excuse me, Madame" (with attempt at mimicry); ah—and she needs it! The orchestra's coming back now. I didn't notice that young woman among them before—what's she going to play, I wonder?

The Friend. Whatever it is, she might look more pleasant over it!

The H. R. M. So she might—we can't all be good-looking, but we can all be pleasant—but they wouldn't have engaged her here, if she hadn't her gift!

The Friend. Oh, you may depend on it, she's got a gift—but I do call her plain, myself.

A Man with a very red nose (to Companion). And then, you see, I've this special advantage—my immense knowledge of the world. Think there's time for another before they begin again, eh?

[Companion is of that opinion; adjournment to bar of house.

Second Part begins; Lady Vocalist retiring after Song.

First Promenader. Brayvo! Engcore! What, she won't sing no more—sssh! [Hisses furiously.

The H. R. M. There's the orchestra themselves clapping her—and they'd know what's good.

Her Friend. She was dressed very nice, I thought.

The H. R. M. I never care to see hair done up that style myself.

On the Platform.

Ladies of Chorus tripping up from below Stage for the Vocal Valse.

Ladies of Chorus (all together). Am I too black under the eyes, dear? Mind where you're going, Miss, please! Treading on people's toes like that—the great clumsy thing! I'm next to you, aren't I? I do feel so funny, my dear, don't you? For goodness sake, don't go setting me on the giggle now!

[They range themselves modestly in a row at edge of platform.

Rude Person (in upper box with Punch squeak). Rooti-too-ti!

[Roars of laughter.

Ladies of C. (indignantly). Beast! I wish they'd give him something to make him rooti-toot, I do!

Conductor-Composer (from behind). Now, Ladies, ready please—keep the laugh steadier than you did last time, and wait for me at the repeat!

[He taps on desk: each Lady of Chorus stiffens herself perceptibly and makes a little grimace.

One Lady (in whisper), Oh, dear, I wish I was at home with my Ma! [Her companions giggle.

The H. R. M. It's as much as they can do to sing for laughing—they're called "Laughing Beauties," though. I like this one's face up at this end—she's so quiet and lady-like over it, and pretty too; they put all the pretty ones in front, but there's one quite an old woman behind. They're having all the fun down at the other end—how they are going on, to be sure!

[End of Vocal Valse: loud applause. Ladies of Chorus retire after encore with air of graceful dignity.

The Person with the Squeak. Goo'-bye, duckies!

[Roars of laughter again: renewed indignation among Chorus. Person with Squeak feels like Sheridan and Theodore Hook rolled into one.

In the Grand Circle.

A Young Gentleman (who has set himself to form his fiancée's mind, but finds it necessary to proceed very gradually). Now, Caroline, tell me—isn't this better than if we had gone to the Circus?

Caroline (from the provinces; unmusical; simple in her tastes). Yes, Joseph, only—(timidly)—there's more of what I call variety in a Circus—more going on, I mean.

The Y. G. (with a sense of discouragement). I quite see your meaning, dear, and it's an entirely true observation; still, you do appreciate this magnificent orchestra, don't you now?

Caroline. I should have liked it better with different coloured curtains—maize is so trying.

The Y. G. (mentally). I won't write home to them about it just yet.

Orchestra begins a "Musical Medley" with Overture to "Tannhäuser."

The Y. G. (who has lost his programme). Now, Caroline—this is Wagner—you'll like Wagner, darling, I'm sure.

Caroline (startled). Shall I? Where is he? Will he come in here? Must I speak to him?

The Y. G. No, no—he's dead—I mean, this is from his Opera—you must listen to this.

[He watches her face for the emotion he expects; "Tannhäuser" melts suddenly into "Tommy, Make Room for your Uncle."

Caroline (her face absolutely transfigured). Oh, Joseph, dear—Wagner's perfectly lovely!

The Y. G. (gloomily). I see, I shall have to put you through a course of Bach, Caroline!

Caroline (alarmed). But there's nothing whatever the matter with me, Joseph! I'm not flushed am I?

[Young Gentleman suppresses a groan.

In a Box.

(Musical Medley still in progress.)

A Lady (not much of an Opera-goer, who has been given a box at the last moment, and has insisted on her husband turning out to escort her). It was silly of you to drop that programme, Robert—I should like to know what this piece is, it seems quite familiar—(Orchestra playing "Soldiers' March" from Faust)—I know—it's Faust, Robert, Gounod's Faust!

[Much pleased with herself for recollecting an Opera she has only heard once.

Robert (sleepily). I know, my dear, all right.

[Faust melts into air from "Pinafore."

His Wife. Do you mean to say you don't remember that, Robert? how exquisite Patti was in the part, to be sure!

Robert. Umph!

["Pinafore" becomes "La ci darem"—which transforms itself without warning into "Two Lovely Black Eyes."

The Lady. There's nobody like Gounod! [Clasps her hands.

Robert (captiously). Gounod's all very well, I daresay, my dear; but it don't seem to me he's altogether original. I've heard something very like this tune before, and I'll swear it wasn't by him!

The Lady. That's very likely; all the best airs get stolen nowadays, and dressed up so as to be quite unrecognisable; but that's not Gounod's fault, is it?

[Fans herself triumphantly, after vindicating her favourite Composer. Robert slumbers.

Behind the Platform.

Erratic Promenader. Beg your pardon, Sir—tha' shtick, not 'tended meet your eye, Sir—'nother gerrilm'n's eye, Sir.

Fair Promenader (to Lady Friend). And I'm sure I don't know how it is, but I'm always crying now for just nothing at all, whenever I'm alone.

The Lady Friend. That's because you give way to it, dear. Come and have something to cheer you up—you'll be a different person after it. [Advice taken; prediction verified.

The Err. Prom. I shay, here'sh lark! see tha' Bobby over there? he thinksh I'm tight! (Waltzes up to him solemnly). Kn'ive pleshure nexsht dansh you, Sir Charlesh?

The Policeman (severely). You keep your 'ands off of me, will you, and take yourself home—that's my advice to you!

Err. Prom. (outraged). You 'pear me to under 'preshionthish is Hy' Par' or Trafa——(with an effort)—Trafa-ralgarar Square. I'm goin' teash you, free Briton not goin' put up with P'lice brurality!

[Hits Policeman in the eye, and is removed, smiling feebly. Scene changes.