Sometimes--very rarely--a lady will politely request me to arrive a little before the time: of course I comply with this request, and make the best of it, but during the latter part of June and the first few weeks in July it is no joke. I have arrived punctually at a "four to seven" party, and have not commenced my first sketch till a quarter to six; the day having been fine and the guests all driving in the park. During those months people do not arrive until five, and then they appear to have one eye on me and the other on the tea. The audience is composed almost entirely of ladies--but I like them. Some years ago I was most particularly requested by one anxious and evidently very nervous lady to arrive punctually on a certain afternoon. I arrived, and was received most cordially by the hostess, who, to my delight, had the room arranged with chairs so that the people could sit down; but on my arrival only one chair was occupied, and that was by a boy in an Eton jacket, who was seated himself at the extreme end of the room. I waited a full three-quarters of an hour before a single person arrived. In the meanwhile the lady handed me a little pink envelope enclosing what Sir Digby Grant, in _The Two Roses_, designates "a little cheque." I placed it hastily in my pocket, and was much amused by the lady approaching me shortly afterwards and saying, "Have you got it quite safe?" I enquired what? She replied, "The little envelope." I said, "Oh yes, thank you." "Oh, that is all right," she said. "It seemed to me you placed it rather carelessly in your pocket." "Oh, it was not carelessness," I assured her; "only bashfulness." At a quarter to five two ladies arrived, and at five the hostess, addressing me, said: "Would you mind commencing now? Some of the audience have been here nearly an hour." This, I presume, had reference to the Eton boy at the back of the room, who came before time. "With pleasure," I remarked. I opened the grand piano and commenced the first item. I had not been at it more than ten minutes when the two ladies got up, and, shaking hands with the hostess, said they were so sorry they could not stay any longer, but they had to meet some friends at another party before half-past five. I therefore continued the next twenty minutes of the sketch to the solitary boy, whose totally immovable face gave me no idea as to whether he was enjoying the entertainment or not. The room soon began to fill with extraordinary rapidity. At the conclusion of the entertainment the hostess again, in a whisper, asked if I still had the envelope quite safe. I pulled it half-way out of my breast coat-pocket, and said, with a smile and a nod, "It's all right, you see." She laughed and replied: "Oh, yes; I see it's all right." At the foot of the stairs I encountered the Eton boy with the serious face. He had stayed till the very last. I said: "Well, weren't you bored with all the rot I've been talking?" He replied: