Outside again. BOSCH shows me a house.

"Lokeer. In dot house leef an oldt lady all mit herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland, ya.s.sir."

Really, I think BOSCH is going to be interesting--at last. There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous nature.

"Well, Bosch, go on--what about the old lady?" I ask eagerly, as MERTON.

"Wol, Sir," says BOSCH, "she nefer go noveres."...

That's _all_! "A devilish interesting story, _Sumph_, indeed!" to quote Mr. Wagg.

But, as BOSCH frequently reminds me, "It vas pedder, you see, as a schendlemans like you go apout mit me; I dell you tings dot vas not in de guide-books." Which I am not in a position to deny.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

FEELING THEIR WAY.

(A STUDY IN THE ART OF GENTEEL CONVERSATION.)

_The Drawing-room of a Margate Hotel. TIME--Evening. MRS. ARDLEIGH (of Balham), and MRS. ALLb.u.t.t (of Brondesbury), are discovered in the midst of a conversation, in which each is anxious both to impress the other, and ascertain how far she is a person to be cultivated. At present, they have not got beyond the discovery of a common bond in Cookery._

MRS. ALLb.u.t.t. You have the yolks of two eggs, I must tell you; squeeze the juice of half a lemon into it, and, when you boil the b.u.t.ter in the pan, make a paste of it with _dry_ flour.

MRS. ARDLEIGH. It sounds delicious--but you never can trust a Cook to carry out instructions exactly.

MRS. ALL. I never _do_. Whenever I want to have anything specially nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself. He appreciates it. Now _some_ men, if you cook for them, never notice whether it's you or the Cook. My husband _does_.

MRS. ARD. I wonder how you find time to do it. I'm sure _I_ should never----

MRS. ALL. Oh, it takes time, of course--but what does that matter when you've nothing to do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne pepper?--because that's a _great_ improvement!

MRS. ARD. I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than anything--and that's eggs.

MRS. ALL. (_with elegant languor_). I hardly ever eat an egg. Oysters, now, I'm _very_ fond of--_fried_, that is.

MRS. ARD. They're very nice done in the real sh.e.l.ls. Or on scollops. We have silver--or rather--(_with a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour_), silver-plated ones.

MRS. ALL. How funny--so have we! (_Both women feel an increase of liking for one another._) I like them cooked in milk, too.

[_The first barrier being satisfactorily pa.s.sed, they proceed, as usual, to the subject of ailments._

MRS. ARD. My doctor _does_ do me good, I must say--he never lets me get ill. He just sees your liver's all right, and then he feeds you up.

MRS. ALL. That's like _my_ doctor; he always tells me, if he didn't keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no time.

That's how I come to be here. I always run down at the end of every Season.

MRS. ARD. (_feeling that MRS. ALLb.u.t.t can't be "anybody very particular"

after all_). What--to Margate? Fancy! Don't you find you get tired of it? _I_ should.

MRS. ALL. (_with dignity_). I didn't say I always went to Margate. On the contrary, I have never been here before, and shouldn't be here now, if my doctor hadn't told me it was my only chance.

MRS. ARD. (_rea.s.sured_). I only came down here on my little girl's account. One of those nasty croupy coughs, you know, and hoops with it.

But she's almost well already. I will say it's a wonderful air. Still, the worst of Margate is, one isn't likely to meet a soul one knows!

MRS. ALL. Well, that's the charm of it--to me. One has enough of that during the Season.

MRS. ARD. (_recognising the superiority of this view_). Indeed one has.

What a whirl it has been to be sure!

MRS. ALL. The Season? Why, I never remember one with so little doing.

Most of the best houses closed--hardly a single really smart party--one or two weddings--and that's positively all!

MRS. ARD. (_slightly crushed, in spite of a conviction_ _that--socially speaking--Balham has been rather more brilliant than usual this year_).

Yes, that's very true. I suppose the Elections have put a stop to most things?

MRS. ALL. There never was much going on. _I_ should rather have said it was Marlborough House being shut up that made everything so dull from the first.

MRS. ARD. Ah, that _does_ make such a difference, doesn't it? (_She feels she must make an effort to recover lost ground._) I fully expected to be at Homburg this year.

MRS. ALL. Then you would have met Lady Neuraline Menthol. She _was_ ordered there, I happen to know.

MRS. ARD. Really, you don't say so? Lady Neuraline! Well, that's the first _I've_ heard of it. (_It is also the first time she has heard of her, but she trusts to be spared so humiliating an admission._)

MRS. ALL. It's a fact, I can a.s.sure you. You know her, perhaps?

MRS. ARD. (_who would dearly like to say she does, if she only dared_).

Well, I can hardly say I exactly _know_ her. I know _of_ her. I've met her about, and so on. (_She tells herself this is quite as likely to be true as not._)

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Dear, dear! _not_ a county family!"]

MRS. ALL. (_who of course does not know Lady Neuraline either_). Ah, she is a most delightful person--requires _knowing_, don't you know.

MRS. ARD. So many in her position do, don't they? (_So far as she is concerned--they all do._) You'd think it was haughtiness--but it's really only _manner_.

MRS. ALL. (_feeling that she can go ahead with safety now_). I have never found anything of _that_ sort in Lady Neuraline myself (_which is perfectly true._) She's rather odd and flighty, but _quite_ a dear. By the way, _how_ sad it is about those poor dear Chutneys--the Countess, don't you know!

MRS. ARD. Ah (_as if she knew all the rest of the family_), I don't know _her_ at all.

MRS. ALL. Such a sweet woman--but the trouble she's had with her eldest boy, Lord Mango! He married quite beneath him, you know, some girl from the provinces--not a county-family girl even.

MRS. ARD. (_shocked_). Dear, dear! _not_ a county family!

MRS. ALL. No; somebody quite common--I forget the name, but it was either Gherkin or Onion, or something of that sort. I was told they had been in Chili a good while. Poor Mango never had much taste, or he would never have got mixed up with such a set. Anyway, he's got himself into a terrible pickle. I hear Capsic.u.ms is actually to be sold to pay his debts.