consternation. They don't know who ARTHUR ROBERTS is.

"Not know!" exclaims PULLER, quite in his element. "Well, when you
come to London, you send to me, and I'll take you to hear him."

"He's a Music-Hall singer," says the Countess, fanning herself with an
air of contemptuous indifference.

"Music-Hall Ar-_tiste_!" returns PULLER, emphasising the second
syllable, which to his mind expresses a great deal, and makes all the
difference. "Now, Miladi," he goes on, imitating the manner of one
of his own favourite counsel, engaged by PULLER & CO., conducting a
cross-examination, "Have you ever seen him?"

"Yes," she replies, shrugging her shoulders, "once. And," she adds,
making the bracelets jingle again, as with a tragedy queen's action of
the right arm she sweeps away into space whole realms of Music Halls
and comic singers, "that was quite enough."

"Didn't he make you laugh?" continues PULLER, still in the character
of a stern cross-examiner.

"Laugh!" almost shrieks the Countess, extending her hands so suddenly
that I have only time to throw myself back to avoid a sharp tap on
the head from her fan. "Heavens! not a bit! not the least bit in the
world! He made me sad! I saw the people in the stalls laughing, and I
said,"--here she appeals with both hands to the majority of sensible
people at large--still at large--"'Am I stupid? am I dull? Do I not
understand?'"

"O Mother!" expostulates her daughter, in her most languid manner, "he
_was_ funny!"

"Funny!" ejaculates the Countess, tossing her head.

"I'd rather see ARTHUR ROBERTS than SALVINI," says PULLER, waggishly,
but with conviction.

"I think I would, for choice," says Miss CASANOVA, meditatively, but
seeing the Countess's horrified expression of countenance, she takes
care to add more languidly than ever, as if taking the smallest part
in an argument were really too exhausting, "but then, you know, I
really don't understand tragedy, and I love a laugh."

"Prefers ARTHUR ROBERTS to SALVINI!" exclaims the Countess, and throws
up her hands and eyes to the ceiling as if imploring Heaven not to
visit on her the awful heresy of her child.

Here I interpose. SALVINI, I say, is a great _Artiste_, no doubt of
it, a marvellous Tragedian; and ARTHUR ROBERTS is not, in the true
dramatic sense of the word, a genuine Comedian; but he is, in another
sense a true Comedian, though of the Music-Hall school.

"What a school!" murmurs the Countess, and with a pained