ke each other's
happiness.

_Podb._ Did you, by Jove? Porter, I say, never mind about that
luggage. Do you happen to know if Mr. and Miss TROTTER--the American
gentleman and his daughter--are down yet?

_Porter_. TRODDERS? Led me see; yes, zey ged zeir preakfast early, and
start two hours since for Murano and Torcello.

_Podb._ Torcello? Why that's where BOB and Miss PRENDERGAST talked of
going to-day! CULCHARD, old fellow, I've changed my mind. Shan't leave
to-day, after all. I shall just nip over and see what sort of place
Torcello is.

_Culch._ Torcello--"the Mother of Venice!" it really seems a pity to
go away without having seen it. Do you know, PODBURY, I think I'll
join you!

_Podb._ (_not over cordially_). Come along, then--only look sharp.
Sure you don't mind? Miss TROTTER will be there, you know!

_Culch._ Exactly; and so--I think you said--will
the--er--PRENDERGASTS. (_To Porter._) Just get us a gondola and two
rowers, will you, for Torcello. And tell them to row as fast as they
can!

* * * * *

A FAIR PHILOSOPHER.

[Illustration]

Ah! Chloris! be as simple still
As in the dear old days;
Don't prate of Matter and Free Will,
And IBSEN's nasty plays,
A girl should ne'er, it seems to me,
Have notions so pedantic;
'Twere better far once more to be
Impulsive and romantic.

There was a time when idle tales
Could set your heart aflame;
But now the novel nought avails,
Philosophy's your game.
You talk of SCHOPENHAUER with zest,
And pessimistic teaching;
Believe me that I loved you best
Before you took to preaching.

There's still some loveliness in life,
Despite what cynics say;
It is not all ignoble strife,
That greets us on our way.
Then prithee smooth that pretty brow,
So exquisitely knitted;
Mankind in general, I trow,
Can do without being pitied.

We'll linger over fans and frills,
Discuss dress bit by bit,
As in days when the worst of ills
Were frocks that would not fit.
'Twas frivolous, but I'm content
To hear you talk at random;
For life is not all argument,
And "_Quod est demonstrandum_."

You smile, 'twill cost you then no pang,
To be yourself once more,
To let philosophy go hang,
With every Buddhist bore.
"_Pro aris_," like a Volunteer,
A girl should be, "_et focis_;"
Supposing then you try, my dear,
A new metempsychosi