_Wheer's the good o' a golden harvest if I canna change it for gold?_ * * * * * [Illustration: A HOPELESS CASE. _Ceres._ "THERE, MY FRIEND, I HAVE GIVEN YOU A GOLDEN HARVEST THIS YEAR!" _Farmer._ "IT'S VERY KIND OF YOU, MARM; BUT 'TAIN'T MUCH GOOD IF I CAN'T GET GOLD FOR IT!"] * * * * * LYRE AND LANCET. (_A Story in Scenes._) PART XII.--DIGNITY UNDER DIFFICULTIES. SCENE XXI.--_The Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern_; Mrs. POMFRET, _the Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a winged arm-chair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with_ Lady CULVERIN'S _maid_, Miss STICKLER. _The Chef_, M. RIDEVOS, _is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with_ Mlle. CHIFFON, Miss SPELWANE'S _maid_; PILLINER'S _man_, LOUCH, _watches_ STEPTOE, Sir RUPERT'S _valet, with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to_ Miss PHILLIPSON, _who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present_. _Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone)._ All I _do_ say, Mrs. POMFRET, ma'am, is this: if that girl LOUISA marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did _last_ Sunday, before the second laundry maid--and her only under-scullery maid--such presumptuousness should be put a stop to in future! _Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily)._ Depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while _I_'m 'ousekeeper here. _Mlle. Chiffon_ (_in French, to_ M. RIDEVOS). You have the air fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there--but fatigued! _M. Ridevos._ Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece--a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. I pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as artist. _Mlle. Chiffon._ And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from the cookery of these others--I who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not at all--oh, but not at all! Since I am here--ah, the difference! I digest as of old--I am gay. But next week to return with Mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets! _M. Rid._ For me, dear Mademoiselle, for me the regrets--to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellow-countrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid--they comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of honour, this ruin! [Miss STICKLER _comes up to the sofa smiling in happy unconsciousness_.