"There I have the advantage of you," said Miss Nimrod. "I shall never marry till I meet a thoroughly _un_conventional man." "A thoroughly unconventional man would never want to marry at all," said Lillie. "Of course not. That is the beauty of the situation. That is the paradox which guarantees my spinsterhood. Well, I've had a charming afternoon, Miss Dulcimer, but I must really run away now. I hate keeping men waiting, and I have an appointment with a couple of friends at the Junior Widows'. Such fun! While riding in the park before lunch, I met Guy Fledgely out for a constitutional with his father, the baronet. I asked Guy if he would have a chop with me at the club this evening, and what do you think? The baronet coughed and looked at Guy meaningly, and Guy blushed and hemmed and hawed and looked sheepish and at last gave me to understand he never went out to dine with a lady unless accompanied by his father. So I had to ask the old man, too. Isn't it awful? By the way, Miss Jack, I should be awfully delighted if you would join our party!" [Illustration: "I asked them to have a chop at the club with me."] "Thank you, Wee Winnie," said Miss Jack, disdainfully. "But think how thoroughly conventional the baronet is! He won't even let his son go out without a chaperon." "That is true," admitted Miss Jack, visibly impressed. "He is about the most conventional man I ever heard of." "A widower, too," pursued Miss Nimrod, pressing her advantage. Miss Jack hesitated. "And he dines seven sharp at the Junior Widows'." "Ah then, there is no time to lose," said Miss Jack. They went out arm in arm. * * * * * "Have you seen Patrick Boyle's poem in the _Playgoers' Review_?" asked Lillie, when the club was clear. "You mean the great dramatic critic's? No, I haven't seen it, but I have seen extracts and eulogies in every paper." "I have it here complete," said Lillie. "It is quite interesting to find there is a heart beneath the critic's waistcoat. Read it aloud. No, you don't want the banjo!" Lord Silverdale obeyed. The poem was entitled. CRITICUS IN STABULIS (?). Rallying-point of all playgoers earnest, Packed with incongruous types of humanity, Easily pleased, yet of critics the sternest, Crudely ignoring that all things are vanity. Pit, in thee laughter and tears blend in medley-- Would I could sit in thy cozy concavity! No! to the stalls I am drawn, to the deadly Centre of gravity. Florin, or shilling, or sixpence admission, Often I've paid in my raw juvenility, Purchasing Banbury cakes in addition, Ginger-beer, too, to my highest ability. Villains I hissed like a venomous gander, Virtue I loved next to cheesecakes or chocolate; Now no atrocity raises my dander, No crime can shock o' late.