VOCES POPULI.

In A fog.—­A reminiscence of the past month.

Scene—­Main Thoroughfare near Hyde Park.  Time 8 P.M.  Nothing visible anywhere, but very much audible; horses slipping and plunging, wheels grinding, crashes, jolts, and English as she is spoke on such occasions.

Mrs. Flusters (who is seated in a brougham with her husband, on their way to dine with some friends in Cromwell Road).  We shall be dreadfully late, I know we shall!  I’m sure peacock could go faster than this if he liked—­he always loses his head when there’s much traffic.  Do tell him to make haste!

Mr. F. Better let him alone—­he knows what he’s doing.

Mrs. F. I don’t believe he does, or he wouldn’t dawdle like this.  If you won’t speak to him, I must. (Lets down the glass and puts out her head.) Peacock!

A Blurred Shadow on the Box. Yes, M’m.

Mrs. F..  What are we stopping for like this?

The Shadow.  Fog very thick just ’ere, M’m.  Can’t see what’s in front of us, M’m.

Mrs. F. It’s just as safe to keep moving as to stand still—­go on at once.

The S. Very good, M’m. (To horse.) Pull urp! [Crash!

Voice from the Unseen.  What the blanky blank, &c.

Peacock.  There is suthin in front, M’m.  A van, from ’is langwich, M’m.

Mrs. F. (sinking back).  MARMADUKE, this is awful.  I’d no idea the fog was like this—­or I should never have—­(With temper.) Really, people have no right to ask one out on such a night.

Mr. F. (with the common-sense that makes him “so aggravating at times.") Well, FANNY, you could hardly expect ’em to foresee the weather three weeks ahead!

Mrs. F. At all events, you might have seen what it was going to be as you came home from the Temple.  Then we could have sent a telegram!

Mr. F. It seemed to be lifting then, and besides, I—­ah—­regard a dinner-engagement as a species of kindly social contract, not to be broken except under pressing necessity.

Mrs. F. You mean you heard me say there was nothing but cold meat in the house, and you know you’ll get a good dinner at the CORDON-BLEWITTS,—­not that we are likely to get there to-night.  Have you any idea whereabouts we are?

Mr. F. (calmly).  None whatever.

Mrs. F. Then ask PEACOCK.

Mr. F. (lets down his window, and leans out).  PEACOCK!

The Shadow.  Sir?

Mr. F. Where have we got to now?

Peacock.  I ain’t rightly sure, Sir.

Mrs. F. Tell him to turn round, and go home.