Podb. (To CULCH.) I say, old fellow, we’re to be travelling companions again, after all.  And a jolly good thing, too, I think!... eh?

Culch. Oh, h’m—­quite so.  That is—­but no doubt it will be an advantage—­(with a glance at Van B., who is absorbed in Miss P.’s conversation)—­in—­er—­some respects. (To himself.) Hardly from poor dear PODBURY’s point of view, I’m afraid, though!  However, if he sees nothing—! [He shrugs his shoulders, pityingly.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Pocket-books for next year are coming in.  Which for choice? “Solvitur ambulando” should be the resolution of the difficulty, given by one firm at least, that firm being “WALKER.”  They are handy, and conveniently pocketable, but to “The chiels amang ye taking notes,” plain leaves, and no fruit, and no dates, we should say, would be preferable.  They’re reasonable prices, and you can’t expect to get ’em for nothing; if you do—­“WALKER!”

[Illustration]

The Baron highly approves of Messrs. DE LA RUE’s pocket-books.  It is pleasant to have something in one’s pocket, even if only a book.  As to account-books and diaries—­well enter nothing therein but what has been pleasant and profitable, and most diarians who adopt this rule will not find their memoranda overcrowded at the end of the year.  “Letts be happy, while we can, and good luck to you, Ladies all, in 1892.  Leap year!” quoth the Baron.  “Over you go like the villagers in the German story, after the sheep, into the sea of matrimony, where may you all get on swimmingly.” A propos, Mesdames BLYTHE and GAY say that the Christmas Number of Woman, produced by a number of women, is as full of attractive power as the Magnetic Lady herself.

“ARROWSMITH’s Shilling Sensational, by ‘a New Author,’” quoth the Baron, “would, methought, serve pour me distraire.”  The “New Author” uses the remarkably new device of a mole on the lost child’s breast.  Isn’t that original? Miss Box and Miss Cox are lost, and found.  “Have you a mole on your left breast?” “Yes!” “Then it is both of you!” Charming!  So useful is the explanation that “Hanwell is a little village, a few miles from London.”  Perhaps it is the locality, there or thereabouts, where this thrillingly interesting tale—­which could have been told in fifty pages, and needn’t have been told at all—­was written.  Well, well, “All’s Hanwell that ends Hanwell,” and “I’ve galloped through a worse story before now,” quoth the Baron, yawning, and so to bed.

[Illustration:  Turning over the pages.]