_Sultan._ _Doesn't_ it? The same infernal--but influential--news-sheet says: "The young KHEDIVE knows that not only would he meet with a personally kindly reception, but that the grievances he is known to be anxious to pour out would fall on ready ears." There, at least, the Giaour "rag" is right. Pour away, my ABBAS! "Keep your eye on your father--or Suzerain--and he will pull you through." [_Winks and whiffs._ _Khedive (whiffing and winking)._ Will he, though? And that Turkish Bodyguard? _Sultan (warmly)._ At your service at any moment, my dear ABBAS! _Khedive (smoking furiously with closed eyes)._ Ah! if they would only let me alone, let me rule my subjects in my own Oriental way--as you do yours in Armenia, for example--then, indeed, I could have a good time, and plenty of treasure. _Sultan (significantly)._ Out of which my little formal trifle of Tribute might come easily and _regularly_--eh, ABBAS? _Khedive._ Quite so, Padishah! Bah! These brutal, blundering Britishers don't understand the Art of Government as adapted to Eastern Ideas. _Sultan (soothingly)._ Well, never mind, ABBAS. We'll lay our heads together, anon, now you _are_ here, and--who knows? Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves. Something like a "Turkish Occupation" this--eh? And how do you like this Turkish tobacco? _Khedive (blowing vigorously)._ Smokes easily, and makes a big cloud. In which I fancy I can see myself driving the British Lion out of the Nile Valley at the point of the bayonet. _Sultan (dreamily)._ And I picture myself comfortably replenishing my Treasury with that Tribute! Like music, ABBAS? _Khedive (uneasily)._ Ye-e-e-s. Why! _Sultan (promptly)._ Then I'll tip you something soothing. [_Sings._ I'll sing thee songs of Arabi, And tales of far Cash ne-ar! Strange yarns to move thee to a smile, Or melt thee to a te-ar! And dreams of delight shall hover bright, And smoke-born vi-i-sions rise Of artful "fake," which well may wake Wild wonder in thine eyes. I'll move thee to a smile With dreams of far Cash ne-e-e-e-ar! [_Left dreaming._ * * * * * [Illustration: LACONIC. _Passenger._ "CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT ARE THE TIMES FOR THESE 'BUSSES TO LEAVE THE SWISS COTTAGE?" _Driver._ "Quarter after--'Arf after--Quarter to--and _At!_"] * * * * * A VISION OF ROYALTY. (_Written after a surfeit of the Illustrated Papers._) Ye Royalties of England, how beautiful ye are! The special artists claim you, they track you from afar. In uniforms and diamonds, with sceptre and with crown, In many a picture-paper those artists set you down. And thus the British public may gaze upon its Queen-- They make her small, but dignified, of most majestic mien. She smiles--the artist marks her; she frowns--the artist quails, And soothes himself by drawing H.R.H. the Prince of WALES.