_The Y. G. (gloomily)_. I see, I shall have to put you through a course of +Bach+, +Caroline+! _Caroline (alarmed)_. But there's nothing whatever the _matter_ with me, +Joseph+! I'm not flushed am I? [_Young Gentleman suppresses a groan_. +In a Box.+ (_Musical Medley still in progress_.) _A Lady (not much of an Opera-goer, who has been given a box at the last moment, and has insisted on her husband turning out to escort her)_. It was silly of you to drop that programme, +Robert+--I should like to know what this piece is, it seems quite familiar--(_Orchestra playing "Soldiers' March" from Faust_)--_I_ know--it's Faust, +Robert+, _+Gounod's+ Faust_! [_Much pleased with herself for recollecting an Opera she has only heard once_. _Robert (sleepily)_. _I_ know, my dear, all right. [_Faust melts into air from "Pinafore."_ _His Wife_. Do you mean to say you don't remember that, +Robert+? how exquisite +Patti+ was in the part, to be sure! _Robert_. Umph! [_"Pinafore" becomes "La ci darem"--which transforms itself without warning into "Two Lovely Black Eyes."_ _The Lady_. There's nobody like +Gounod+! [_Clasps her hands_. _Robert (captiously)_. +Gounod's+ all very well, I daresay, my dear; but it don't seem to me he's altogether _original_. I've heard something very like this tune before, and I'll swear it wasn't by him! _The Lady_. That's very likely; _all_ the best airs get stolen nowadays, and dressed up so as to be quite unrecognisable; but that's not +Gounod's+ fault, is it? [_Fans herself triumphantly, after vindicating her favourite Composer_. +Robert+ _slumbers_. +Behind the Platform.+ _Erratic Promenader_. Beg your pardon, Sir--tha' shtick, not 'tended meet _your_ eye, Sir--_'nother_ gerrilm'n's eye, Sir. _Fair Promenader (to Lady Friend)_. And I'm sure I don't know how it is, but I'm always crying now for just nothing at all, whenever I'm alone. _The Lady Friend_. That's because you give way to it, dear. Come and have something to cheer you up--you'll be a different person after it. [_Advice taken; prediction verified_. _The Err. Prom_. I shay, here'sh lark! see tha' Bobby over there? he thinksh I'm _tight_! (_Waltzes up to him solemnly_). Kn'ive pleshure nexsht dansh you, Sir Charlesh? _The Policeman (severely)_. You keep your 'ands off of me, will you, and take yourself home--that's my advice to _you_! _Err. Prom. (outraged)_. You 'pear me to under 'preshionthish is Hy' Par' or Trafa----(_with an effort_)--Trafa-ralgarar Square. I'm goin' teash you, free Briton not goin' put up with P'lice brurality! [_Hits Policeman in the eye, and is removed, smiling feebly. Scene changes_. * * * * * An Open Question.