"O Mother!" faintly remonstrates Miss CASANOVA, who loves a stall at the Opera. She fears that her mother's energetic declaration means war, and fans herself helplessly. I am preparing to reconcile music and the drama, and am getting ready a supply of oil for what I foresee will be troubled waters, as the METTERBRUNS are beginning to rustle their feathers and flap their wings,--when PULLER, leaning well forward, and stretching out an explanatory hand, with his elbow planted firmly on the table, ("Very bad manners," says Cousin JANE afterwards to me) says genially, "Well, _voyez vous_, look here, you may talk of your WAGNERS and SHAKSPEARES, and GAYARRES, and PATTIS, but, for singing and acting, give me ARTHUR ROBERTS. Yes," he repeats pleasantly but defiantly, and taking up, as it were, the Countess's gauntlet, "SALVINI'S not in it with ARTHUR ROBERTS." The Countess's fan spreads out and works furiously. The steam is getting up. The METTERBRUNS open their eyes, and regard one another in consternation. They don't know who ARTHUR ROBERTS is. "Not know!" exclaims PULLER, quite in his element. "Well, when you come to London, you send to me, and I'll take you to hear him." "He's a Music-Hall singer," says the Countess, fanning herself with an air of contemptuous indifference. "Music-Hall Ar-_tiste_!" returns PULLER, emphasising the second syllable, which to his mind expresses a great deal, and makes all the difference. "Now, Miladi," he goes on, imitating the manner of one of his own favourite counsel, engaged by PULLER & CO., conducting a cross-examination, "Have you ever seen him?" "Yes," she replies, shrugging her shoulders, "once. And," she adds, making the bracelets jingle again, as with a tragedy queen's action of the right arm she sweeps away into space whole realms of Music Halls and comic singers, "that was quite enough." "Didn't he make you laugh?" continues PULLER, still in the character of a stern cross-examiner. "Laugh!" almost shrieks the Countess, extending her hands so suddenly that I have only time to throw myself back to avoid a sharp tap on the head from her fan. "Heavens! not a bit! not the least bit in the world! He made me sad! I saw the people in the stalls laughing, and I said,"--here she appeals with both hands to the majority of sensible people at large--still at large--"'Am I stupid? am I dull? Do I not understand?'" "O Mother!" expostulates her daughter, in her most languid manner, "he _was_ funny!" "Funny!" ejaculates the Countess, tossing her head. "I'd rather see ARTHUR ROBERTS than SALVINI," says PULLER, waggishly, but with conviction. "I think I would, for choice," says Miss CASANOVA, meditatively, but seeing the Countess's horrified expression of countenance, she takes care to add more languidly than ever, as if taking the smallest part in an argument were really too exhausting, "but then, you know, I really don't understand tragedy, and I love a laugh."