_Madame_ (_backhairing energetically_). Fiddlesticks.

_The Signor_ (_in an injured tone_). Oh! Vy you say zat? You know I do sof-far from my nose--and my head ache all ...

_Madame_ (_coming to a dead stop in her toilette_). Mr. Regniati, you eat and drink too much.

_The Signor_ (_as if horrified at lying under such an imputation, but showing no disposition to rise with the occasion_). Oh! My Jo!

(_appealing to abstract justice in the bed-curtains._) Good-ness knows (_he p.r.o.nounces it 'Good-ness-knows'_) I eat no-sing at-all.

_Madame_ (_coming to the point_). Mr. Regniati, I can't finish my dressing if you stop there.

_The Signor_ (_bestirring himself with as much dignity as is possible under the circ.u.mstances_). I go. Vere is my leet-tel slip-pers?

(_Protesting_) I shall catch my dets of cold. (_He finds them._)

_Madame._ Now, Mr. Regniati, make haste, or we shall be late. (_Shuts his dressing-room door on him._)

In about a quarter of an hour after this, the carriage is announced, and the Signor is hurried down stairs.

_The Signor_ (_complaining_). Oh! I am so ongry. (_Procrastinating._) Ve 'ave time to take som-sing to eat, be-fore zat ve ...

_Madame_ (_cutting him short_). Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. If you wanted to stuff, you should have got up earlier.

_Mr. Regniati._ Stoff! (_Protests._) My Jo! I do not stoff!

(_Unhappily._) I 'ave no-sing in ...

_Madame_ (_ascetically_). A little abstinence will do you good. Come.

_Exeunt Madame, attended by the Signor. Carriage drives off._

Mrs. Orby Frimmely, whose new things came down yesterday--latest Parisian mode--the two Misses Cherton, Miss Medford, Captain Byrton, Chilvern, Cazell, are the Church party.

Mr. Orby Frimmely, having been busy in the City all the week, is what he calls "taking it out" in bed on Sunday morning. He emphatically a.s.serts his position (a horizontal one), and with religious fervour claims Sunday as a day of rest.

Being uncertain of the weather I remain at home with Milburd.

Milburd shifts the responsibility on to my shoulders by saying, "I'll go if you'll go."

Hesitation.

_Happy Thought._ Wait and see what the weather is like.

At a quarter to eleven (service is at eleven) the weather is like nothing particular.

_10.50._ A gleam of sunshine. We watch it. The Signor, to whom the weather is of consequence, as he intends walking to the nearest farm on a visit of inspection to some rather fine pigs, remarks, "It vill 'old-up. Ven de sun shine now, it shine all day."

Milburd doesn't think so. My opinion is that these rays are treacherous.

_10.55._ First appearance of genuine blue sky. Peal of bells stopped, and one only going now. The last call. More hesitation, I ask Milburd what he thinks of it. Milburd, in an arm-chair before fire and the "Field" newspaper in his hand, says "that he doesn't know what to make of it." Further hesitation.

_Eleven._ Cessation of all bells. Sudden silence everywhere. Sky bright and blue. Sun out.

_Happy Thought._--If we'd only known this we might have gone to church.

_Milburd_ (_from behind the "Field"_). "Yes. It's too late now."

The Signor has started with Jenkyns Soames (who is of some philosophic form of religion, in which long walks and gymnastics play leading parts), for the Piggeries.

Of Boodels nothing has been seen, or heard, since his first message.

Mr. Orby Frimmely, under the impression that the ladies have disappeared from the scene, descends in his lounging coat, and breakfasts alone.

After this he lights a cigar, and makes himself useful in the conservatory.

Madame is walking in the garden, enjoying the winter sun's warmth, and reading.

From my room I can see her. She comes pacing majestically right underneath my window. Her book is the _Meditations of Marcus Aurelius_.

I pause ....

Then .... My Pens!.... I write

[Ill.u.s.tration: CURRENTE CALAMO.]

CHAPTER XVIII.

MORE SUNDAY THOUGHTS--IN MY ROOM--A TELEGRAM--IMPOSSIBILITIES-- INTERRUPTION.

_Happy Thought for Sunday._--Write down meditations. Like Marcus Aurelius did. Why not go in for _Sunday Books_? Telegraph to Popgood and Groolly (my publishers, who have been in treaty with me for two years about _Typ. Developments_), and say,

FROM ME, | Messrs. POPGOOD & GROOLLY, HAPPY THOUGHT HALL, | THE WORKS, HERTFORDSHIRE. | BOOKMAKERS' WALK, | FINSBURY, E.C.

Good notion for you. Sunday book. Nothing solemn. Lightly contemplative.

Will you? Wire back.

Forgot it's Sunday, and no telegrams can be sent. Very absurd. Why shouldn't one want to send a telegram on Sunday equally as much as on Monday? Telegraphic people might arrange for holidays easily enough, by having small extra Sunday staff.

_Happy Thought._--Will commence my Meditations. Head them _Sunday Sayings_. No, they're _not_ sayings. Prefer alliterative t.i.tle. Try _Sunday Sighs_. But they're not sighs. Try another, _Sunday Sermons_.

No, they won't be sermons. Put down a lot of t.i.tles and see which I like. _Sunday Songs._ _Sobs for Sunday._ _Sunday Solids._ (This is something more like it.) Or a double t.i.tle. _Sunday Solids and Sunday Suctions._ No; won't do.

_Happy Thought._--Write the meditations first, see what they come out like, and then give them a name. This will, so to speak, "suit my book,"

as to-morrow, with a name and everything cut and dried, I can write particulars to Popgood and Groolly.

For the nonce--(good word, by the way, "the nonce")--only it's always given me the idea of sounding like a vague part of the body, where one could be hit or knocked down. I mean it would never surprise me to hear that some one had met a man and hit him on the nonce. Result fatal.

_"He was not found for some days after, but there is no doubt that he was killed by a blow on the nonce."_

_Extract from local paper._