fresh current of air invades the room.  DONNERWITZ’s knife is now brandishing peas; his offended napkin chokes him; with the yell and spring of a corpulent hyena, he rises and rushes to the windows.  The timid pensionnaire and her shrinking sisterhood follow him, under the misconception that he is summoning them to admire the sunset; the sunset is their evening excitement, and DONNERWITZ can be sentimental in his calmer moments; but no “Wie wunder, wunderschoen!” escapes him; a Saxon word, that even they can understand, is on his lips; the ring on his forefinger gleams luridly; bang, bang, bang; he opens fire; down go the windows, and DONNERWITZ resumes his seat of war, his napkin waving like a standard before him.  It is now my turn; I don’t like it; but my co-conspirators expect me to maintain the honour of our country:  ADOLF cannot be trusted further; I advance furtively; the eyes of Europe are upon me; one by one I open them again and subside; a terrible silence supervenes.  What next?—­that is the question!

But DONNERWITZ is not only a MOLTKE, he is also a BISMARCK; flushed and moist with exertion, he has foreseen this move; it is the hour of that inevitable “Bavaroise”; the fork has succeeded to the knife:  his mouth is at last free to confabulate with his neighbour—­the Lady from Chicago.

“Wal, I call that slap-up rude,” I hear her remark.  “In Amur’ca we should just hev’ him removed; but Englishmen are built that way; they fancy, I s’pose, they discovered CO-LUMBUS;” and then DONNERWITZ leans over the table and, grasping the united weapons of fork, knife, and spoon, addresses me with effervescent deliberation.  “Pardon,—­Mister,—­but—­dis—­leddy,—­haf—­gatarrh; in a Sherman shentleman’s house—­most—­keep—­first—­de—­leddy zimmer; so!” I don’t fully understand, but I feel that my chivalry is impugned.  My confederates, too, round upon me; “Of course,” they whisper, “had no idea the lady was an invalid.”  The brutes!  I stutter an apology, and “climb down;” the windows are again hermetically sealed; and, as I slink away.  I hear “Viva!” “Hoch!” and clinking glasses.  Then ADOLF hurries up surreptitiously, and whispers, “Tell you vat, Sare:  to-morrer you shoost dine on de terass; dere, plenty breeze, hein?” “Plenty breeze!”—­and you pay three francs extra, and catch a cold.

* * * * *

SIGH NO MORE, LOTTIE.

    ["The disinfecting process has ruined all the dresses of Miss
    COLLINS.”—­New York Telegram.]

  Sigh no more, LOTTIE, sigh no more,
    Those gowns have gone for ever;
  You’ve cut some capers on that shore
    That you expected never;
  Then sigh not so, but let them go,
    And be you blithe and bonny,
  Converting all your sounds of woe
    To Tarara—­boom—­de nonny. 
  Sing that vile ditty yet once more,
    And win almighty dollars
  From Yankees who have spoilt your store
    Of frocks, frills, cuffs and collars;
  The air will run in their heads like one
    O’clock, till it makes the same ache. 
  While on you shines prosperity’s sun. 
    Your Tarara-boom-de hay make!