e for their souls, are so
fascinating, and tell so much; they interest me like sea-shells, or the
nests of birds.

'A lover of Switzerland,' I inferred, 'has travelled in the East--the
complete works of Canon Farrar--that big bust with whiskers is
Mendelssohn, no doubt. Good heavens! a stuffed cat! And that Moorish
plaque is rather awful. Still, some of the nicest people have no
taste--'

Then I saw the clock. One look at that pink china clock, with the face
of a monkey, was enough. Softly from that drawing-room, softly I stole
downstairs, and closed the front door of that house softly behind me.

WHISKERS

There was once a young man who thought he saw Life as it really is, who
prided himself on looking at it grimly in the face without illusions.
And he went on looking at it grimly, as he thought, for a number of
years. This was his notion of himself; but one day, meeting some very
young people, he saw, reflected as it were in their eyes, a bland old
gentleman with a white waistcoat and Victorian whiskers, a lover of
souls and sunsets, and noble solutions for all problems--

That was what he saw in the eyes of those atrocious young men.

THE SPELLING LESSON.

The anecdote which had caused the laughter of those young people was not
a thing to joke about. I expressed my conviction briefly; but the
time-honoured word I made use of seemed unfamiliar to them--they looked
at each other and began whispering together. Then one of them asked in a
hushed voice, 'It's what, did you say?'

I repeated my monosyllable loudly.

Again they whispered together, and again their spokesman came forward.

'Do you mind telling us how you spell it?'

'I spell it with a W!' I shouted.

'W-r-o-n-g--Wrong!'

JEUNESSE

Mind you, I don't say that their eyes aren't bigger than ours, their
eyelashes longer, their faces more pink and plump--and they can skip
about with an agility of limb which we cannot equal. But all the same a
great deal too much is made of these painted dolls.

Think of the thinness of their conversation!

Depicted in gaudy tints on the covers of paper novels they look well
enough; and they make a better appearance in punts, I admit, than we do.
But is that a reason why they should be allowed to disturb the decorum
of tables, and interrupt with their giggles and squeaks our grave
consultations?

HANGING ON

If it didn't all depend on me; if there was any one else to decide the