SCENE--_Postal Counter of Shop in another part of Town._ _Two more Young
Ladies_ (Miss RUTINA REDTAPE _and_ Miss MINKS) _discovered. At the
counter a stout but agreeable Youth purchasing post-cards. Various
Members of General Public behind, waiting._ Miss REDTAPE _is engaged at
the telegraphic instrument_.
_Stout but Agreeable Youth (to_ Miss MINKS). Let's have another look at
the thin ones.
_Miss Minks._ Well, you _are_ a difficult one to please! (_With a
killing glance._) _There!_ Now, perhaps you'll make up your mind!
_St. Y._ Not so difficult to please as you fancy. But I _am_ a little
particular about post-cards. I write a good deal on post-cards.
_Miss Minks (archly)._ I hope you don't write your _secrets_ on
post-cards!
_St. Y._ If I do, you'll be able to read 'em, you know.
_Miss Minks._ Do you suppose I've any time for reading rubbish?
Besides--(_more archly still_)--I don't even know your handwriting.
_St. Y._ I write a very nice hand. You shall see it some day.
_Impatient Member of Public._ Will you kindly tell me if this letter
will go for a penny? (_Pathetically._) I've been waiting some time!
_Miss Minks (in injured tone)._ I can't possibly attend to more than one
at a time! (_To_ Stout Youth.) You'll get me into trouble, you see, if
you're so faddy about choosing. You are so _silly_ over it!
_St. Y._ I daresay you'll think it rather odd, but I don't seem able to
make up my mind. (_Insinuatingly._) Suppose _you_ choose for me?
_Miss Minks._ Perhaps you won't like what _I_ choose?
_St. Y._ Don't make yourself at all uneasy about _that_.
_Miss Minks (coquettishly)._ I don't. There's a packet of thick ones for
you. Now, give me eightpence, and go away.
_St. Y._ The idea of expecting a fellow to have _eight_-pence about him!
_Another Impatient Member of Public._ Dozen penny stamps, Miss, please.
_Miss Minks._ If you'll _kindly_ wait till I have finished with this
gentleman!
_St. Y. (in undertone)._ You _have_ finished with this gentleman--done
for him completely!
_Miss Minks._ Do you think I don't know better than to believe such
nonsense! I shall get into _such_ a row for keeping these people
waiting--and it's all _your_ fault. [_Plaintively._
_St. Y._ Poor little girl--they _do_ work you awfully hard! I'll go
(_sentimentally_), but I shall keep these post-cards _always_!
_Miss Redtape (reading a telegram)._ Chipperfield Lodge, Chipperfield,
near Uxbridge. Can't send that, Sir.
_Author of Message._ Can't send it? Nonsense! Why?
_Miss R. (who suffers from a fixed idea; with deliberate precision)._
Because it is insufficiently addressed.
_A. of M. (much astonished)._ Where on earth is the insufficiency?
_Miss R._ "_Near_ Uxbridge"--you must alter that before I can send it.
_A. of M._ That's the address I was given; I've no reason to believe it
wants adding to, and I _can't_ add anything!
_Miss R._ Then I can't send it.
[A. of M. _remonstrates in vain, pleads, and urges._--Miss RUTINA
_remains obdurate, and he has to retire, helpless_.
_Miss Minks (gabbling out form handed in by anxious-looking Lady)._ "For
love of Heaven do nothing of kind. Come to me at once, TINY"--you want
that to go as it is?
_Anx. Lady._ Yes--yes--there's no irregularity in it, is there?
_Miss Minks (severely)._ You know that better than I can tell you.
Limmer's? Limmer's _what_?
_Anx. Lady._ Limmer's Hotel.
_Miss Minks._ Then that will be another halfpenny--it will be sent off
in its proper turn.
_Enter a_ German Servant.
_German Serv. (to Miss R.)_ I vas to gif you zis delegram, blease.
_Miss R._ Very well--you can leave it. Stop--who's it addressed to?
(_With much decision._) _This_ won't do!
_Germ. Serv._ I vas to gif it to you. Is it not for ze Lord Meyer?
_Miss R._ Lord Mayor, yes, I see that well enough, but _where_?
_Germ. Serv._ I subbose vere he dwell at--I do not know how you gall
it--on ze oondergroundt I zink it is.
_Miss R._ Don't know any Lord Mayor who lives underground--can't take it
like this.
_Officious Bystander._ He means the Mansion House. I should think that
would find the Lord Mayor without much difficulty, wouldn't it?
_Miss R. (chillingly)._ Can't say, I'm sure. (_To Servant._) Go back and
ask your Master if he means Mansion House, to say so.
_Germ. S. (blankly)._ He is goned avay--he vill not be pack undil
efening.
_Miss R._ Then ask him, _then_.
_Germ. S._ I zink it vas imbortant--eef you gould dry at ze Mansions
haus, berhaps----?
_Miss R._ I've no authority to put in anything beyond what's given me to
send--if your Master _will_ give an insufficient address, it's not my
fault, and you can tell him so.
_Off. Bystander (to Miss R.)_ But hang it all! There's only one Lord
Mayor, in London at all events!
_Miss R._ How do I know it's for London at all?
_Bystander._ I should have thought you might have _risked_ it!
_Miss R._ I can't help what you would have thought, Sir; I know my own
business. (_To Germ. S._) I've given you my answer.
[_Exit_ German Servant _resignedly, his idea of a Lord Mayor somewhat
lowered_; Miss REDTAPE _stamps letters with the serenity of conscious
rectitude. Scene closes in._
* * * * *
Arms and the (Police) Man.
"THRICE is he armed who hath his quarrel just."
But sure that Force in self-defence will fail
Whose only armour, 'gainst the critic thrust,
Is found to be "Black Mail."
* * * * *
VISITING LISZT.--The latest and one of the most interesting papers on
this erratic Abbe, is to be found in the _Month_ for July. _Tolle,
lege._ Also see _London Society_ for _The Hired Baby_. The story is
pathetic with here and there a vein of cynical humour. As for the
moral----well, you can't expect much of a moral from a hired baby.
* * * * *
A Dark Look-Out.
"There is no public career in India for the native of
India."--_Echo._
"THE world's mine oyster" 'tis in vain to sing,
If for a "Native" there's no "opening."
* * * * *
_CUCUMBER Chronicles_, by ASHBY STERRY. Light reading, easily carried,
and not at all cu-cumbersome. Nothing Melon-choly about them. Can't say
any more because it's so hot, and we've only just cut the cucumber. Of
course you must be in a cucumber frame of mind to thoroughly enjoy them.
* * * * *
TAG FOR THE THIRSTY.--One swallow does not make a summer--drink.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DEVELOPMENT OF SPECIES UNDER CIVILISATION.
'_Arriet._ "OW, 'ARRY! I S'Y! _H'YN'T_ 'E A UGLY COWVE!"]
* * * * *