The Baron has dipped into a refreshingly light and airy volume called _The Impressions of Aureole_, published by CHATTO AND WINDUS. Just the volume for the tourist resting awhile from his London-seasonable labours. _Aureole_ does a little bit of everything and enjoys it all. She has the faculty of appreciation for scenes in town and country, at home and abroad. She "sails away in a galliant ship" like _Roy Neil's_ bride into Icebergian regions, where "_we pray under our breaths for illuminating sunshine and the ice bink is given us in half-miraculous substitution_." "Half-miraculous" is good. Half a miracle better than no miracle at all. Then on another occasion writes _Aureole_:-- "We find our way into a gleamy wood, and I gather some crimson berries, oozing from a cool green bank like drops of blood, while unfamiliar blossoms flourish in gay clusters at my feet." "Personally," says the Baron, speaking for himself, "should not like to gather 'drops of blood.'" Glad that the blossoms were so well behaved as not to be familiar. How delightful to be on board with our enthusiastic _Aureole_, and, if she will only trust one with it, enjoy for a few moments the loan of her "_ivory lorgnette_" with "_diamond initials_" which "_seem to gleam responsively when_," says _Aureole_, "_I sweep the horizon with ecstacy_." _Aureole_, the gadabout and globetrotter, is delightful everywhere. The one touch of domestic nature does come in now and again, and her "dear BILL," her "handsome BILL," her rackety, good-half BILL, on being reminded by _Aureole_ that they have to dine at the Savoy 7.30, exclaims "Confound these blessed bothering _cafés_. This is five nights running. Can't we chuck the thing?" Then _Aureole_ asks him "What on earth do you want?" "'Want!' why a mutton chop, and a wife, and a whisky-and-soda," says BILL, brutally. And then they go to the "palace of luxury" and "dine with seven other spirits more weary than ourselves." So they might all dirge in chorus the old duet of "_Again we come to thee, Savoy!_" The Masked Ball story is very well told--quite a little comedy; and of course all the gay resorts at home and abroad are visited by the lively _Aureole_. 'Tis a sketch of "How we live now," and must please a number of people who are "in the movement," and a great many more who are out of it, but who like to be up in what is going on, and to imagine that they also could be of the gay world if only they chose. Fill me a bumper of cold (not iced) champagne, which, to _Aureole_, quaffs The appreciative BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.