"Not this morning, darling. I've too much to do!" "Oh, but you _must_, mummy. I've already put it in my new diary that you _did_!"] * * * * * DURING THE DANCING _Jack._ I say, Mabel, you've got to dance the "Washington Post" with _me_. _Mabel._ I can't. I've promised Teddy Thistledown. _Jack._ Oh! _that's_ all right. I swapped with him for a Nicaragua stamp. _Mabel_ (_touched_). But aren't they rare? Didn't you want it yourself? _Jack._ Oh! I don't collect, you know. _George_ (_to Ethel_). They've given us the whole of "Ivanhoe" to mug up for a holiday task. Isn't it a beastly shame? _Ethel._ But don't you like Scott? _George._ Oh! I don't mind _Scott_ so much. It's having to grind in the holidays that _I_ bar. _Hester_ (_to Roland_). Shall you go to the pantomime this year? _Roland._ I don't think so. I'm going to lectures at the Royal Institution instead. _Hester._ That isn't as jolly as the pantomime, is it? _Roland_ (_impartially_). Not while it's going on, but a lot jollier after it's over. _Mr. Poffley_ (_a middle-aged bachelor, who "likes to make himself useful at parties," and is good-naturedly waltzing with little Miss Chillington_). Have you--er--been to many parties? _Miss Chillington_ (_a child of the world_). About the usual amount. There's generally a good deal going on just now, isn't there? _Mr. Poffley._ A--I suppose so. I go out so little now that I've almost forgotten _how_ to dance. _Miss Chillington._ Then you _did_ know once! _Mr. Poffley_ (_completely demoralised_). I--er--you would rather stop? _Miss Chillington._ Oh! I don't mind going on, if it amuses you. [_Mr. Poffley feels that "children are not so grateful as they used to be for being noticed," and that it is almost time he gave up going to juvenile parties._ * * * * * [Illustration: RES ANT-IQUÆ.--"Auntie dear, where do these fossil shells come from?" "Oh, my dear child, a great many years ago they were washed up here by the sea." "How long ago, auntie dear?" "Ever so long ago, dear child." "What! Even before _you_ were born, auntie?"] * * * * * [Illustration: EXTREME MEASURES _Mother._ "If I catch you chasing those hens again, I'll wash your face _every day next week_!"] * * * * * AFTER SUPPER _The Hostess_ (_returning to the drawing-room to find the centre of the floor occupied by a struggling heap of small boys, surrounded by admiring but mystified sisters_). Oh! dear me, what _are_ they doing? I'm so afraid my two boys are being too rough, Mrs. Hornblower. _Mrs. Hornblower_ (_one of a row of complacent matrons_). Oh! not at all, dear Mrs. Honeybun, they're having _such_ fun. Your Edwin and Arthur are only trying how many boys they can pile on the top of my Tommy. _Mrs. Honeybun._ Is that Tommy underneath? Are you sure he's not getting hurt?