First Lady in Plush Cloak. But I thought you knew what was coming?
The M. in E. D. So I did—but this fellow does it differently.
[Herr Von K. is preparing to fire a marked half-crown from a blunderbuss into a crystal casket.
A Lady with Nerves (to her husband). John, I'm sure he's going to let that thing off!
John (a Brute). Well, I shouldn't be surprised if he is. I can't help it.
The L. with N. You could if you liked—you could tell him my nerves won't stand it—the trick will be every bit as good if he only pretends to fire, I'm sure.
John. Oh, nonsense!—You can stand it very well if you like.
The L. with N. I can't, John. … There, he's raising it to his shoulder. John, I must go out. I shall scream if I sit here, I know I shall!
John. No, no—what's the use? He'll have fired long before you get to the door. Much better stay where you are, and do your screaming sitting down. (The Conjuror fires.) There, you see, you didn't scream, after all!
The L. with N. I screamed to myself—which is ever so much worse for me; but you never will understand me till it's too late!
[Herr Von K. performs another trick.
First Lady in Plush Cloak. That was very clever, wasn't it? I can't imagine how it was done!
The M. in E. D. (in whom the memory of his desecrated hat is still rankling). Oh, can't you? Simplest thing in the world—any child could do it!
Second Lady. What, find the rabbit inside those boxes, when they were all corded up, and sealed!
The M. in E. D. You don't mean to say you were taken in by that! Why, it was another rabbit, of course!
First Lady. But even if it was another rabbit, it was wearing the borrowed watch round its neck.
The M. in E. D. Easy enough to slip the watch in, if all the boxes have false bottoms.
Second L. Yes, but he passed the boxes round for us to examine.
The M. in E. D. Boxes—but not those boxes.
First L. But how could he slip the watch in when somebody was holding it all the time in a paper bag?
The M. in E. D. Ah, I saw how it was done—but it would take too long to explain it now. I have seen it so well performed that you couldn't spot it. But this chap's a regular duffer!
Herr V. K. (who finds this sort of thing rather disturbing). Lyties and Shentilmans, I see zere is von among us who is a brofessional like myself, and knows how all my leedle dricks is done. Now—[suddenly abandoning his accent]—I am always griteful for hanythink that will distrack the attention of the orjence from what is going on upon the Stige; naterally so, because it prevents you from follerin' my actions too closely, and so I now call upon this gentleman in the hevenin' dress jest to speak hup a very little louder than what he 'as been doin', so that you will be enabled to 'ear hevery word of 'is hexplanation more puffickly than what some of you in the back benches have done itherto. Now, Sir, if you'll kindly repeat your very hinteresting remarks in a more haudible tone, I can go on between like. [Murmurs of "No no!" "Shut up!" "We don't want to hear him!" from various places; The Man in Evening Dress subsides into a crimson taciturnity, which continues during the remainder of the performance.
At the Tudor Exhibition.
IN THE CENTRAL HALL.
The usual Jocose 'Arry (who has come here with 'Arriet, for no very obvious reason, as they neither of them know or care about any history but their own). Well, I s'pose as we are 'ere, we'd better go in a buster for a book o' the words, eh? (To Commissionaire.) What are yer doin' them c'rect guides at, ole man? A shillin'? Not me! 'Ere, 'Arriet, we'll make it out for ourselves.
A Young Man (who has dropped in for five minutes—"just to say he's been, don't you know"). 'Jove—my Aunt! Nip out before she spots me. … Stop, though, suppose she has spotted me? Never can tell with giglamps … better not risk it. [Is "spotted" while hesitating.
His Aunt. I didn't recognise you till just this moment, John, my boy. I was just wishing I had some one to read out all the extracts in the Catalogue for me; now we can go round together.
[John affects a dutiful delight at this suggestion, and wonders mentally if he can get away in time to go to afternoon tea with those pretty Chesterton Girls.
An Uncle (who has taken Master Tommy out for the afternoon). This is the way to make your English History real to you, my boy!
[Tommy, who had cherished hopes of Covent Garden Circus, privately thinks that English History is a sufficiently unpleasant reality as it is, and conceives a bitter prejudice against the entire Tudor Period on the spot.
The Intelligent Person. Ha! armour of the period, you see!
(Feels bound to make an intelligent remark.) 'Stonishing how the whole art of war has been transformed since then, eh? Now—to me—(as if he was conscious of being singular in this respect)—to me, all this is most interesting. Coming as I do, fresh from Froude—
His Companion (a Flippant Person). Don't speak so loud. If they know you've come in here fresh, you'll get turned out!
Patronising Persons (inspecting magnificent suit of russet and gilt armour). 'Pon my word, no idea they turned out such good work in those times—very creditable to them, really.
BEFORE THE PORTRAITS.
The Uncle. Now, Tommy, you remember what became of Katherine of Aragon, I'm sure? No, no—tut—tut—she wasn't executed! I'm afraid you're getting rather rusty with these long holidays. Remind me to speak to your mother about setting you a chapter or so of history to read every day when we get home, will you?
Tommy (to himself). It is hard lines on a chap having a Sneak for an Uncle! Catch me swotting to please him!
'Arry. There's old 'Enery the Eighth, you see—that's 'im right enough; him as 'ad all those wives, and cut every one of their 'eds off!
'Arriet (admiringly). Ah, I knew we shouldn't want a Catalogue.
The Int. P. Wonderfully Holbein's caught the character of the man—the—er—curious compound of obstinacy, violence, good-humour, sensuality, and—and so on. No mistaking a Holbein—you can tell him at once by the extraordinary finish of all the accessories. Now look at that girdle—isn't that Holbein all over?
Flippant P. Not quite all over, old fellow. Catalogue says it's painted by Paris Bordone.
The Int. P. Possibly—but it's Holbein's manner, and, looking at these portraits, you see at once how right Froude's estimate was of the King.
F. P. Does Froude say how he got that nasty one on the side of his nose?
A Visitor. Looks overfed, don't he?
Second V. (sympathetically). Oh, he fed himself very well; you can see that.
The Aunt. Wait a bit, John—don't read so fast. I haven't