hard bits all round, but as everyone applies them to
his or her neighbour, everyone naturally enjoys the joke immensely. We
used the word "drolleries" just now. Happy Thought; As we have had the
Fisheries, and the Sogeries, and any number of other "eries," why not
re-name St. George's Hall "The Drolleries?" Advice gratis:--Before the
Season's over, it is a place to spend a happy afternoon or evening. As
_Hamlet_, if he had thought of it, would have said to _Ophelia_, "Go!
to the Drolleries! Go!"

* * * * *

A DIALOGUE UP TO DATE.

(_WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE IMPORTANCE OF TALKING AN INFINITE DEAL OF
NOTHING_.)

SCENE--_A Room_, PERSONS--GILNEST _and_ ERBERT.

[For further details, See Mr. OSCAR WILDE'S Article in _The
Nineteenth Century_ for July.]

_Erbert_ (_at the banjo_). My dear GILLIE, what are you doing?

_Gilnest_ (_yawning_). I was wondering when you were going to begin.
We have been sitting here for an hour, and nothing has been said upon
the important subject we proposed to discuss.

_E._ (_tapping him lightly on the cheek_). Tut, tut, my dear boy, you
must not be petulant. And yet, when I come to study you more closely,
your face looks charming when you make a _moue_. Let me see you do it
again. Ah, yes. You look into my eyes with the divine sullenness that
broods tragically upon the pale brow of the Antinous. And through
your mind, though you know it not (how indeed should you?), march many
mystical phantoms that are not of this base world. Pale HELEN steps
out upon the battlements and turns to FLAUBERT her appealing glance,
and CELLINI paces with Madame DE SEVIGNE through the eternal shadows
of unrevealed realism. And BROWNING, and HOMER, and MEREDITH, and
OSCAR WILDE are with them, the fleet-footed giants of perennial
youth, like unto the white-limbed Hermes, whom Polyxena once saw, and
straight she hied her away to the vine-clad banks of Ilyssus, where
Mr. PATER stands contemplative, like some mad scarlet thing by DVORAK,
and together they march with the perfect significance of silence
through realms that are cloud-capped with the bright darkness that
shines from the poet's throne amid the stars.

[Stops, and lights a cigarette.

_G._ Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Now indeed I recognise my ERBERT's
voice; and that is--yes, it must be--the scent of the cigarettes you
lately imported. Grant me one, only one. (_Takes one and lights it._)
But what were you t