_In the Lese-zimmer, a small gaslit room, with glazed doors opening upon the Musik-saal. Around a table piled with German and English periodicals, a mild Curate, the Wife of the English Chaplain, and two Old Maids are seated, reading and conversing. CULCHARD is on a central ottoman, conscientiously deciphering the jokes in "Fliegende Blätter." PODBURY is at the bookcase, turning over odd TAUCHNITZ volumes._ _The Chaplain's Wife_ (_to the Curate, a new arrival_). Oh, you will _very_ soon get into all our little ways. The hours here are _most_ convenient--breakfast (_table d'hôte_) with choice of eggs or fish and coffee--really _admirable_ coffee--from eight to nine; midday dinner at one. Supper at nine. Then, if you want to write a letter, the post for England goes out at--(_&c., &c._) And on Sundays, eleven o'clock service (Evangelical, of _course_!) at the--(_&c., &c._) My husband--(_&c., &c._) _First Old Maid_ (_looking up from a four days old "Telegraph"_). I see they are still continuing that very interesting correspondence on "Our Children's Mouths--and are they widening?" One letter attributes it to the habit of thumb--sucking in infancy--which certainly ought to be checked. Now I never _would_ allow any-- _The Chaplain's Wife_. Nor I. But corals are quite as bad. Only this afternoon I was telling a Lady in this hotel that her little boy would be much happier with a rubber ring. You get them at a shop in the Hoch-strasse I can take you to it at any time, or if you like to mention my name--(_&c., &c._) _Second O.M._ One correspondent thought the practice of eating soup with table-spoons tended to enlarge the mouth. I really believe there may be something in it. [_A pause._ _The Curate_. The weather we have been having seems to have materially affected the harvest prospects at home; they say there will be little or no fodder for the cattle this year. I saw somewhere--I forget where it was exactly--a suggestion to feed cows on chickweed. _Podb._ (_at the bookcase_). Capital thing for them too, Sir. Know a man who never gives his cattle anything else. _The Curate_. Oh, really? And does he find the experiment answer? _Podb._ They take to it like birds. And--curious thing--after he'd tried it a month, all the cows turned yellow and went about chirping and twittering and hopping. Fact, I assure you! _The Curate_. Dear me--I should scarcely have-- [_He gradually comes to the conclusion that he is being trifled with, and after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, gets up and quits the room with dignity._