“But there’s another reason,” he added, “why I like TROLLOPE.  You see we were both at the Post Office.”

Some day soon I am going to try him with one of Mr. WALKLEY’S criticisms.

E.V.L.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “A—­AH!  D’YOU K—­KNOW YOU’RE S—­STANDING ON MY FOOT?”

“WELL, WOT YER GOIN’ TO DO ABAHT IT?”]

* * * * *

From an article on the Lawn Tennis Championship, purporting to be written by Mlle. SUZANNE LENGLEN:—­

“Quelle journees ils etait!” “Mon dieu, comme etait beau!” “C’est le partie le plus dispute.” Sunday Paper.

We can only hope that the Entente is now strong enough to survive even these shocks.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  IT’S ALL IN THE GAME.]

[Illustration:  IT’S ALL IN THE GAME.]

* * * * *

PRISCILLA PAINTS.

“There was a lot of men in the boat,” said Priscilla from behind the table, where she sat daubing with little energetic grunts.

“Oh, there were, were there?” I answered from behind The Times.

Confident of arousing my enthusiasm in the end, she continued to issue tantalising bulletins about the progress of the great work.

“It was an all-colour boat,” she told me, “purple and yellow and green.”

“A very nice kind of boat too,” I agreed.

“And the biggest man of all hadn’t got any body at all.”

I suggested weakly that perhaps the biggest man of all had left his body behind on the table at home.  The suggestion was scorned.

“No, he hadn’t never had any body at all, this man,” she replied.  And then, as my interest seemed to be flagging again, “They all had very rosy faces; and do you know why they had?”

“I don’t, I’m sure.”

“Because they’d eaten up all their greens.”

Vanquished at last, I went over to visit the eupeptic voyagers.  Seven in all, they stood in their bright boat on a blue sea beneath a round and burning sun.  Their legs were long and thin, their bodies globular (all save one), and their faces large.  They were dressed apparently in light pink doublets and hose, and on his head each wore a huge purple turban the shape of a cottage loaf, surmounted by a ragged plume.  They varied greatly in stature, but their countenances were all fixed in the same unmeaning stare.  Take it all in all, it was an eerie and terrible scene.

“I don’t quite see how the boat moves along, Priscilla,” I said; “it hasn’t any oars or sail.”

It was a tactless remark and the artist made no reply.  I did my best to cover my blunder.

“I expect the wind blew very hard on their feathers,” I said, “and that drove them along.”

“What colour is the wind?” inquired Priscilla.