_Noble Earl_ (_who has just come into his title_). “Lord be blowed! Lend me a fiver, and you may call me what you like--and I’ll dine with you into the bargain!” * * * * * [Illustration: _Little Dobbs_ (_who is a good dancer, but has let his partner down with a crash_). “That was my very first accident. Will _you_ give me a dance?” _She_ (_majestically_). “Certainly, with pleasure. _I never let a man down in my life!_”] * * * * * [Illustration: _He_ (_who has failed to catch his companion’s name, and wishes to find it out indirectly_). “By the way, how do you _spell_ your name?” _She._ “J-O-N-E-S.”] * * * * * [Illustration: NEVER CARRY YOUR GLOVES IN YOUR HAT Mr. Poffington flatters himself he is creating a sensation. (_Perhaps he is._)] * * * * * OUR WHIST PARTY.--_Major MacFlush_ (_at close of rubber, to partner_). “Didn’t ye see me call for trumps?” _Partner_ (_a new hand_). “You may have called, major, but I never heard you!” * * * * * [Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF EXCLUSIVENESS _She._ “I believe you know my neighbours, the Chesterfield Browns?” _He._ “Haw--well--a--I go to the house, don’tcherknow, and dine with ’em occasionally, and all that--but I’m not on _speaking terms_ with ’em!”] * * * * * [Illustration: DRAWING-ROOM INANITIES _He._ “I live in Hill Street. Where do you live?” _She._ “I live in Hill Street, too.” _He_ (_greatly delighted to find they have something in common_). “_Really!_” (_After a moment’s hesitation._) “Any particular number?”] * * * * * DISTINGUISHED INVALIDS (_Latest Bulletins_) [“A person writing to the _Daily Dispatch_ says the Marquess of Anglesey’s wonderful polyglot parrot is not ill, but on the contrary was laughing and chatting very heartily on Monday.”] We are glad to be able to state that Lord Mount Sorrel’s favourite monkey, which has been suffering lately from phlebitis, is well on the way to recovery. No further bulletins will be issued. The report that Lady Agatha Fitzhunter’s pet pony was confined to the stable with bronchitis is grossly exaggerated. The pony merely complained of being a little horse. The joke, of course, like its maker, was a chestnut. Mrs. Martin Bradley’s French poodle is rapidly re-covering. It is admitted on all hands, however, that it was a remarkably close shave. The alarming rumour that Lord Barndore’s famous owl (which had been suffering from insomnia lately) had committed suicide on Tuesday night, is happily contradicted this morning. It appears that the owl had merely left the house for a few hours for a special purpose-to wit, to woo!