(INTERNATIONAL FELINE AMENITIES.)

Fair French Republican.  “SO YOU ’AVE RETURN FROM PARIS?  HOW DID YOU LIKE IT?”

Lady Godiva.  “OH, PAS DE TOUT—­IT IS SO ALTERED FOR THE WORSE!  FOR I CAN REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS IN THE DEAR OLD DAYS OF THE EMPIRE!”

Fair French Republican.  “AH, MILADI, IS IT NOT POSSIBLE ZAT PARIS MAY FIND YOU A LITTLE BIT ALTERED TOO!”]

* * * * *

STORICULES.

IV.—­A REVIEWER’S CONFESSION.

I am extremely fond of sitting and looking on; but I do not care about taking part in anything.  There are some people who cannot even witness a cab accident without wanting to be the horse or the man who is sitting on the horse’s head.  They walk round the prostrate animal and give advice; and if they are allowed to help in any way, they are quite happy.  If such people watch a game of any sort, they always wish they were taking part in it.  I once went to a cricket-ground to eat luncheon, and I went with an enthusiast of this kind.  We noticed that his attention seemed distracted, that he only replied in monosyllables when we spoke to him, and that there was something on his mind.  “I would give,” he exclaimed, at last—­and it was the only remark that he had volunteered for half-an-hour—­“I would give a year of my life for twenty minutes with that bowling.”  He was evidently deeply affected. “Why don’t they take him off?” he moaned.  There were tears in his eyes.  I do not quite understand that feeling.  I can watch absolutely anything, but I never want to do more.  I was not made to undertake principal parts—­I can witness amateur theatricals without wishing to be the prompter.  I review novels, but I do not write them.

The other day I watched a game of tennis.  I had placed the lounge-chair in a safe and shady position.  I had got a paper-knife and the third volume with me.  The cat had followed me out of the library, and sat down in a convenient position so that I could scratch it gently behind the ear if I wanted to.  I was smoking a pipe that had just reached the right stage of maturity, and, in some indefinable way, made life seem richer and better.  Everything was well arranged for the watching of tennis.

There were two players—­BILL, a young son of the house, whom I knew intimately, and TOMMY, a boy of the same age, who had just come up from the Rectory.  I had not seen TOMMY before.  He was a nice-looking little boy, and wore a black necktie in the collar of his silk tennis-shirt.  BILL is not good-looking; he is red and freckled, and grins vastly.  He was wearing rather unclean flannels, and did not look quite so refined and delicate as TOMMY.  I compared the two boys, and thought that I preferred BILL.  In the first game of the set, BILL, who plays wonderfully well, won easily; after that, my attention got fixed on that third volume.  I turned down a corner of the page whenever I came