* * * * *

The Observer recently warned us that—­

    “LOUISA Lady AILESBURY must not be confounded with MARIA
    Lady AILESBURY, who is the widow of the elder brother of her
    husband.”

There is surely some misapprehension here.  Lady “A.” did not marry her deceased husband’s brother, whether “elder” or younger.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO.  XIII.

SCENE—­A hundred yards or so from the top of Monte Generoso, above Lake Lugano.  CULCHARD, who, with a crowd of other excursionists, has made the ascent by rail, is toiling up the steep and very slippery slope to the summit.

Culchard (to himself, as he stops to pant). More climbing!  I thought this line was supposed to go to the top!  But that’s Italian all over—­hem—­as PODBURY would say!  Wonder, by the way, if he expected to be asked to come with me.  I’ve no reason for sacrificing myself like that any longer! (He sighs.) Ah, HYPATIA, if you could know what a dreary disenchanted blank you have made of my life!  And I who believed you capable of appreciating such devotion as mine!

A Voice behind.  My!  If I don’t know that back I’ll just give up!  How’ve you been getting along all this time, Mr. CULCHARD?

Culch. (turning).  Miss TROTTER!  A most delightful and—­er—­unexpected meeting, indeed!

[Illustration:  “Struggling with a long printed Panorama.”]

Miss Trotter.  Well, we came up on the cars in front of yours.  We’ve taken rooms at the hotel up here.  Poppa reckoned the air would be kind of fresher on the top of this mountain, and I don’t believe but what he’s right either.  I guess I shall want another hairpin through my hat.  And are you still going around with Mr. PODBURY?  As inseparable as ever, I presume?

Culch. Er—­about as inseparable.  That is, we are still travelling together—­only, on this particular afternoon—­

Miss T. He went and got mislaid?  I see.  He used to stray considerable over in Germany, didn’t he?  Well, I’m real pleased to see you anyway.  And how’s the poetry been panning out?  I hope you’ve had a pretty good yield of sonnets?

Culch. (to himself).  She’s really grown distinctly prettier.  She might show a little more feeling, though, considering we were almost, if not quite—­(Aloud.) So you remember my poor poems?  I’m afraid I have not been very—­er—­prolific of late.

Miss T. You don’t say!  I should think you’d have had one to show for every day, with the date to it, like a new-laid egg.

Culch. Birds don’t lay—­er—­I mean they don’t sing, in the dark.  My light has been—­er—­lacking of late.

Miss T. If that’s intended for me, you ought to begin chirping right away.  But you’re not going to tell me you’ve been “lounjun round en sufferin’” like—­wasn’t it Uncle Remus’s Brer Terrapin? (Catching C.’s look of bewilderment.) What, don’t you know Uncle Remus?