A waiting game is mine, Fair maid, A waiting game is mine; One day I shall not be afraid To ask, then hear "I'm thine!" And when that word I've spoo-ō-ken, Ere yet I am quite grey, Ne'er will it, dear, be bro-o-o-ken For ever and a day! Mrs. Boodels wants to know if he won't kindly sing it to her through her ear-trumpet. He promises to do so, one day when they are alone. SECOND VERSE. A waiting game is mine, fair maid, A waiting game is mine, I'll stay until my debts are paid, The contract _then_ I'll sign. Unless you've fifty thousand pounds, To bring me as a dower, If so .... those are sufficient grounds For wedding--now--this hour. Nobody asks him to sing again. Mrs. Frimmely says, "She only cares for French songs. English comic songs," she adds, "are _so vulgar_." Settler for Milburd. Glad of it. After this Milburd says he's got another; a better one. We say, sing it to-morrow. _Happy Thought (expressed in a complimentary manner)._--A good song, like yours, is better for keeping. _Note to Myself._ The age for compliments is gone. The courtly and polished Abbé, who would have said the above epigrammatically when it would have been considered remarkably witty, has passed away. No one believes in compliment. It has no currency, except done in a most commonplace way. But the epigrammatic compliment, the well-prepared impromptu, the careful rehearsed inspiration, is out of date. Now-a-days there are no wits, and no appreciation of The Wits. Conversation is damped by a bon-mot. An awful silence follows the most brilliant _jeu de mot_, as sombre as the darkness after a forked flash, or as the gardens at the Crystal Palace after the last bouquet of fireworks. ----- Conversation is like a boot. When damped it loses its polish. ----- [The above remarks occasioned by no one having taken any notice of my epigram, and Milburd only replying to it by saying, "Oh! bosh!"] [Illustration] I've just tried to draw a firework in my pocket-book. It doesn't exactly express my idea. But is a very good sketch of a joke which has failed. This evening I am melancholy. CHAPTER XIV. OUR POSTAL ARRANGEMENTS. Knock at the door. Complaints made to the President of Happy-Thought Hall of the non-delivery or late delivery of letters, and newspapers. I promise to see to it. "George," I say to our servant, "let me see the postman when he comes." George grins, says Yes. Exit George. Why does he grin?