Mrs. Grappleton.  Mr. BOLDOVER, I do believe you were going to cut me! (Mr. B. protests and apologises.) Well, I forgive you.  I’ve been wanting to have another talk with you for ever so long.  I’ve been thinking so much of what you said that evening about BROWNING’S relation to Science and the Supernatural.  Suppose you take me downstairs for an ice or something, and we can have it out comfortably together.

[Dismay of Mr. B., who has entirely forgotten any theories he may have advanced on the subject, but has no option but to comply; as he leaves the room with Mrs. GRAPPLETON on his arm, he has a torturing glimpse of Miss ROUNDARM, apparently absorbed in her partner’s conversation.

Mr. Senior Roppe (as he waltzes).  Oh, you needn’t feel convicted of extraordinary ignorance, I assure you, Miss FEATHERHEAD.  YOU would be surprised if you knew how many really clever persons have found that simple little problem of nought divided by one too much for them.  Would you have supposed, by the way, that there is a reservoir in Pennsylvania containing a sufficient number of gallons to supply all London for eighteen months?  You don’t quite realise it, I see.  “How many gallons is that?” Well, let me calculate roughly—­taking the population of London at four millions, and the average daily consumption for each individual at—­no, I can’t work it out with sufficient accuracy while I am dancing; suppose we sit down, and I’ll do it for you on my shirt-cuff—­oh, very well; then I’ll work it out when I get home, and send you the result to-morrow, if you will allow me.

Mr. Culdersack (who has provided himself beforehand with a set of topics for conversation—­to his partner, as they halt for a moment).  Er—­(consults some hieroglyphics on his cuff stealthily)—­have you read STANLEY’S book yet?

Miss Tabula Raiser.  No, I haven’t.  Is it interesting?

Mr. Culdersack.  I can’t say.  I’ve not seen it myself.  Shall we—­er—?

    [They take another turn.

Mr. C. I suppose you have—­er—­been to the (hesitates between the Academy and the Military Exhibition—­decides on latter topic as fresher) Military Exhibition?

Miss T.R. No—­not yet.  What do you think of it?

Mr. C. Oh—­I haven’t been either.  Er—­do you care to—?

    [They take another turn.

Mr. C. (after third halt).  Er—­do you take any interest in politics?

Miss T.R. Not a bit.

Mr. C. (much relieved).  No more do I. (Considers that he has satisfied all mental requirements).  Er—­let me take you down-stairs for an ice.

    [They go.

Mrs. Grappleton (re-entering with Mr. BOLDOVER, after a discussion that has outlasted two ices and a plate of strawberries).  Well, I thought you would have explained my difficulties better than that—­oh, what a delicious waltz!  Doesn’t it set you longing to dance?