_Mr. S._ I wouldn't say that, SOPHRONIA. It is not always the most appropriate epithet that--let me run over the paragraph again--where is last week's paper? Ah, I have it. (_He procures it and reads with unction._) "The lark, as has been frequently observed by the poets, is in the habit of ascending to high altitudes in the exercise of his vocal functions. Scientific meteorologists, it is true, do not consider that there is any immediate danger of a descent of the sky, but many bird-catchers of experience are of opinion that, should such a contingency happen, the number of these feathered songsters included in the catastrophe would, in all probability, be simply----" It might be "idiotic," of course, but I fancy "incalculable," or "appalling" would be nearer the mark. _Parmenas._ Too obvious, _I_ should say. If you had adopted a few more of the words I got from _Roget's Thesaurus_, we should have been safer. Sending in a word like "disgusting" was sheer waste of one-and-twopence! And as for POMPILIA, with her synonyms to "sensational," and PRISCILLA, with her rubbishy superstition, depend upon it, _they_'re no good! _Pompilia._ You think you know so much, because you've been to London University--but _we've_ been to a High School; so we're not absolute _idiots_. PARMENAS! _Priscilla._ And I'm sure people have dreamt which horse was going to win a race over and over again! _Mr. S._ Come, come, let us have none of these unseemly disputes! And, when you compare a literary competition with--ah--a mere gambling transaction, PRISCILLA, you do a grave injustice to us all. You forget that we have, all of us, worked hard for success; we have given our whole thoughts and time to the subject. I have stayed at home from the office day after day. Your mother has had no leisure for the cares of the household; your brother has suspended his studies for his approaching examination, and your elder sister her labours at the East End--on purpose to devote our combined intelligence to the subject. And are we to be told that we are no better than the brainless multitude who speculate on horse-racing! I am not _angry_, my child, I am only--(_Enter_ ROBERT, _the_ Page, _with a paper in a postal wrapper.) Tiddler's Miscellany_--ha, at last! Why didn't you bring it up before, Sir? You must have known it was important! _Robert._ Please, Sir, it's on'y just come, Sir. _Mr. S. (snatching the paper from him, and tearing it open; the other members of the family crowd round excitedly)._ Now we shall see! Where's the place? Confound the thing! Why can't they print the result in a----(_His face falls._) What are you waiting for, Sir? Leave the room! [_To_ ROBERT, _who has lingered about the sideboard._ _Robert._ Beg pardon, Sir, but would you mind reading out the Word--'cause I'm---- _The Family._ Read the Word, Papa, do!