I blessed Henry (the devil!) in that moment.  “Thank you, dear,” I murmured.

Then Elizabeth spoke and there was a note of relief in her voice.  “Well, I’m reerly glad to ’ear that, as I can go off to-morrer after all.  I ’aven’t been for my ’oliday yet, like.”

“What do you mean?” I gasped.

“Well, you see, ’m, my young man didn’t turn up at the station, so I went and stayed with my sister-in-law at Islington.  She wants me to go with ’er to Southend early to-morrer, but I thort as ’ow I’d better come back ’ere first and see if you reerly could manage without me, for I ’ad my doubts.  ‘Owever, as everythink’s goin’ on orl right I can go with an easy mind.”

I remained speechless.  So did Henry.  Elizabeth went out again into the darkness.  There was a long pause, broken only by my hay fever.  Then Henry spoke.  “Can’t you stop that everlasting sniffing?” he barked out.  “It’s driving me mad, woman.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  OUR VILLAGE SOLOMON.

First Rustic. “D’YE ’EAR OLD DADDY SMITH’S COTTAGE WAS BURNT DOWN LAST NIGHT?”

Second Rustic (of matured wisdom). “I BEAN’T SURPRISED. WHEN I SEES THE SMOKE A-COMING THROUGH THE THATCH I SEZ TO MYSELF, ’THERE’S SELDOM SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE.’”]

* * * * *

    “REQUIRED an English or French resident governess for children from 30
    to 45 years old, having notions of music.”—­Standard (Buenos Ayres).

We are glad they have picked up something during their prolonged juvenescence.

* * * * *

AUTHORSHIP FOR ALL.

    [Being specimens of the work of Mr. Punch’s newly-established Literary
    Ghost Bureau, which supplies appropriate Press contributions on any
    subject and over any signature.]

IV.—­WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE DRAMA?

By Marcus P. Brimston, the gifted producer of “Shoo, Charlotte!"

I have been invited to say a few words to readers of The Sabbath Scoop on the alleged decay of the British drama.  There is indeed some apparent truth in this allegation.  On all sides I hear managers sending up the same old wail of dwindling box-office receipts and houses packed with ghastly rows of deadheads.  No “paper” shortage there, at any rate.

Sometimes these unfortunate people come to me for counsel, and invariably I give them the same admonition, “Study your public.”

There is no doubt that, with a few brilliant exceptions (among which my own present production is happily enrolled), the playhouses have recently struck a rather bad patch.  Useless to lay the blame either on the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER or on the weather.  Give the playgoing public what it wants and no consideration of National Waste or of Daylight Saving will keep it from the theatre.

And that brings me to my point.  Whence comes the playgoing public of to-day, and what does it want?