_Diana._ Not going to die? But then I don't want to run away with Philip. (_Rushes to desk and seizes the telephone._) I must let him know. (_With a shriek_) Help! the telephone's broken! Then I have nothing to live for. (_She takes out poison from poison drawer._) I shall count three before I drink. One--two---- Why doesn't John come? One--two---- If he isn't quick he'll be too late. One---- _Enter_ John _quickly._ _John_ (_looking at his watch._) My darling, I have just time to forgive you. Let us be happy together again. _Diana._ But the telephone's broken! _John_ (_embracing her tenderly_). My darling, I've sent for a man to mend it. _Diana_ (_much moved_). My husband! A. A. M. * * * * * "Miss Gluck only arrived in London from New York after a tour in America earlier in the morning, and proceeded to Richmond to rest."--_Times._ Which she must have wanted after her busy morning. * * * * * Illustration: _First Visitor from the country_ (_to second ditto_). "AY, FRED, LONDON'S THE PLACE TO SEE THE SWELLS ENJOYING THEMSELVES THIS TIME O' YEAR. NOTHING BUT LIFE AND GAIETY ON ALL SIDES." * * * * * THE BIG TROUT. Pull up the rypecks! Push her home! It's roses all the way! Let garlands lie on Thames's foam-- A trout has died to-day! Room for the victor--ho, there, room!-- Who calls the gods to scan No halfling of the lilied gloom, But that leviathan. Anew (with jostling words unstayed) We fight it, inch by inch, From that first moment when he made The line scream off the winch; 'Twas so we struck, we held him so Lest weed had triumph wrecked; Thus to his leap the point dropped low, And thus a rush was checked. O sought-for prize! Full many a day The old black punt has swung Beyond his stance, in twilight's grey, Or when the dawn was young; What hopes were ours, what heart-beats high Have thrilled us, when he rolled Up from the jade-green deep, a-nigh, Dull-gleaming as of gold! Glide on, ye stately swans, with grace-- Ye ne'er again shall see His headlong dash among the dace Beneath the willow-tree; Ye little bleak, lift up your heads, Ye gudgeon, skip at score, The run between the lily beds Shall know its lord no more! Yet, while th' exalted pulses stir, Regret takes hands with Pride, Regret for that most splendid spur-- The Wish Ungratified; With hammering heart that bulk I con, That spread of tail and fin, And sigh, like him of Macedon, With no more worlds to win.