you know,
and--and coming up all dripping like that--no, it's hardly worth while
bringing out the paper again!

_The I. Y. P._ Isn't this queer--"_Neptune's Horses_"?--They _can't_
be intended to represent _waves_, surely!

_Her Mother._ It's impossible to tell what the Painter intended, my
dear, but I never saw waves so like horses as that.

IN THE NORTH ROOM.

_The I. Y. P. "Cain's First Crime."_ Why, he's only feeding a stork! I
don't see any crime in that.

_Her Mother._ He's giving it a live lizard, my dear.

_The I. Y. P._ But storks _like_ live lizards, don't they? And ADAM
and EVE are looking on, and don't seem to mind.

_Her Mother._ I expect that's the moral of it. If they'd taken it away
from him, and punished him at the time, he wouldn't have turned out so
badly as he did--but it's too late to think of that _now_!

_A Matter-of-fact Person (behind)._ I wonder, now, where he got his
_authority_ for that incident. It's new to _me_.

IN THE BALCONY.

_The Mother of the I. Y. P._ Oh, CAROLINE, _you_'ve got the
Catalogue--just see what No. 288 is, there's a dear. It seems to be
a country-house, and they're having dinner in the garden, and some
of the guests have come late, and without dressing, and there's the
hostess telling them it's of no consequence. What's the title--"_The
Uninvited Guests_," or "_Putting them at their Ease_," or what?

_The I. Y. P._ It only says, _"The Rose-Garden at Ashridge_
(containing portraits of the Earls of PEMBROKE and BROWNLOW, the
Countesses of ----").

[_She reads out the list to the end._

_Her Mother._ What a _nice_ picture! Though one would have thought
such smart folks wouldn't have come to dinner in riding-boots,
and shawls, and things--but of course they can afford to be less
particular. And the dessert is beautifully done!

IN THE SOUTH ROOM.

_The I. Y. P._ Why, here are "_Neptune's Horses" again!_ Don't you
remember we saw a picture of them before? But I like this better,
because here you get Neptune and his chariot.

_Her Mother._ He's made his horses a little too like fish, for my
taste.

_The I. Y. P._ I suppose they _were_ a sort of fish--and after all,
one isn't expected to believe in all that nowadays, is one? So it
doesn't really matter.

_First Horsey Man._ Tell you what, Old Neptune'll come to awful grief
with that turn-out of his in another second.

_Second H. M._ Rather--regular bolt--and no ribbons to hold 'em by,
either!

_Fir