Voces Populi. Anstey F.

look how wonderfully fine the stitches are. Ah, she was a truly great woman! I could spend hours over this case alone. What, closing are they, already? We must have another day at this together, John – just you and I.

      John. Yes, Aunt. And now – (thinks there is just time to call on the Chestertons, if he goes soon) – can I get you a cab, or put you into a 'bus or anything?

      His Aunt. Not just yet; you must take me somewhere where I can get a bun and a cup of tea first, and then we can go over the Catalogue together, and mark all the things we missed, you know.

[John resigns himself to the inevitable rather than offend his wealthy relative; the Intelligent Person comes out, saying he has had "an intellectual treat" and intends to "run through Froude again" that evening. 'Arry and 'Arriet, depart to the "Ocean Wave" at Hengler's. Gallery gradually clears as Scene closes in

      In an Omnibus

The majority of the inside passengers, as usual, sit in solemn silence, and gaze past their opposite neighbours into vacancy. A couple of Matrons converse in wheezy whispers

      First Matron. Well, I must say a bus is pleasanter riding than what they used to be not many years back, and then so much cheaper, too. Why you can go all the way right from here to Mile End Road for threepence!

      Second Matron. What, all that way for threepence – (with an impulse of vague humanity). The poor 'orses!

      First Matron. Ah, well, my dear, it's Competition, you know, – it don't do to think too much of it.

      Conductor (stopping the bus). Orchard Street, Lady!

[To Second Matron, who had desired to be put down there

      Second Matron (to Conductor). Just move on a few doors further, opposite the boot-shop. (To First Matron.) It will save us walking.

      Conductor. Cert'inly, Mum, we'll drive in and wait while you're tryin' 'em on, if you like —we ain't in no 'urry!

[The Matrons get out, and their places are taken by two young girls, who are in the middle of a conversation of thrilling interest

      First Girl. I never liked her myself – ever since the way she behaved at his Mother's that Sunday.

      Second Girl. How did she behave?

[A faint curiosity is discernible amongst the other passengers to learn how she – whoever she is – behaved that Sunday

      First Girl. Why, it was you told me! You remember. That night Joe let out about her and the automatic scent fountain.

      Second Girl. Oh, yes, I remember now. (General disappointment.) I couldn't help laughing myself. Joe didn't ought to have told – but she needn't have got into such a state over it, need she?

      First Girl. That was Eliza all over. If George had been sensible, he'd have broken it off then and there – but no, he wouldn't hear a word against her, not at that time – it was the button-hook opened his eyes!

[The other passengers strive to dissemble a frantic desire to know how and why this delicate operation was performed

      Second Girl (mysteriously). And enough too! But what put George off most was her keeping that bag so quiet.

[The general imagination is once more stirred to its depths by this mysterious allusion

      First Girl. Yes, he did feel that, I know, he used to come and go on about it to me by the hour together. "I shouldn't have minded so much," he told me over and over again, with the tears standing in his eyes, – "if it hadn't been that the bottles was all silver-mounted!"

      Second Girl. Silver-mounted? I never heard of that before – no wonder he felt hurt!

      First Girl (impressively). Silver tops to every one of them – and that girl to turn round as she did, and her with an Uncle in the oil and colour line, too – it nearly broke George's 'art!

      Second Girl. He's such a one to take on about things – but, as I said to him, "George," I says, "You must remember it might have been worse. Suppose you'd been married to that girl, and then found out about Alf and the Jubilee sixpence – how would that have been?"

      First Girl (unconsciously acting as the mouthpiece of the other passengers). And what did he say to that?

      Second Girl. Oh, nothing – there was nothing he could say, but I could see he was struck. She behaved very mean to the last – she wouldn't send back the German concertina.

      First Girl. You don't say so! Well, I wouldn't have thought that of her, bad as she is.

      Second Girl. No, she stuck to it that it wasn't like a regular present, being got through a grocer, and as she couldn't send him back the tea, being drunk, – but did you hear how she treated Emma over the crinoline 'at she got for her?

      First Girl (to the immense relief of the rest). No, what was that?

      Second Girl. Well, I had it from Emma her own self. Eliza wrote up to her and says, in a postscript like, – Why, this is Tottenham Court Road, I get out here. Good-bye, dear, I must tell you the rest another day.

[Gets out, leaving the tantalised audience inconsolable, and longing for courage to question her companion as to the precise details of Eliza's heartless behaviour to George. The companion, however, relapses into a stony reserve. Enter a Chatty Old Gentleman who has no secrets from anybody, and of course selects as the first recipient of his confidence the one person who hates to be talked to in an omnibus

      The Chatty O. G. I've just been having a talk with the policeman at the corner there – what do you think I said to him?

      His Opposite Neighbour. I – I really don't know.

      THE C. O. G. Well, I told him he was a rich man compared to me. He said "I only get thirty shillings a week, Sir." "Ah," I said, "but look at your expenses, compared to mine. What would you do if you had to spend eight hundred a year on your children's education?" I spend that – every penny of it, Sir.

      His Opp. N. (utterly uninterested). Do you indeed? – dear me!

      C. O. G. Not that I grudge it – a good education is a fortune in itself, and as I've always told my boys, they must make the best of it, for it's all they'll get. They're good enough lads, but I've had a deal of trouble with them one way and another – a deal of trouble. (Pauses for some expression of sympathy – which does not come – and he continues:) There are my two eldest sons – what must they do but fall in love with the same lady – the same lady, Sir! (No one seems to care much for these domestic revelations – possibly because they are too obviously addressed to the general ear). And, to make matters worse, she was a married woman – (his principal hearer looks another way uneasily) – the wife of a godson of mine, which made it all the more awkward, y'know. (His Opposite Neighbour giving no sign, the C. O. G. tries one Passenger after another.) Well, I went to him – (here he fixes an old Lady, who immediately passes up coppers out of her glove to the Conductor) – I went to him, and said – (addressing a smartly dressed young Lady with a parcel who giggles) – I said, "You're a man of the world – so am I. Don't you take any notice," I told him – (this to a callow young man, who blushes) – "they're a couple of young fools," I said, "but you tell your dear wife from me not to mind those boys of mine – they'll soon get tired of it if they're only let alone." And so they would have, long ago, it's my belief, if they'd met with no encouragement – but what can I do – it's a heavy trial to a father, you know. Then there's my third son – he must needs go and marry – (to a Lady at his side with a reticule, who gasps faintly) – some young woman who dances at a Music-hall – nice daughter-in-law that for a man in my position, eh? I've forbidden him the house of course, and told his mother not to have any communication with him – but I know, Sir, – (violently, to a Man on his other side, who coughs in much embarrassment) – I know she meets him once a week under the eagle in Orme Square, and I can't stop her! Then I'm worried about my daughters – one of 'em gave me no peace till I let her have some painting lessons – of course, I naturally thought the drawing-master would be an elderly man – whereas,