CAPT. G. (Knocking the ashes out of his pipe.) 'Tisn't what we say, it's what we don't say, that helps. And it's all the profoundest philosophy. But no one would understand--even if it were put into a book. MRS. G. The idea! No--only we ourselves, or people like ourselves--if there are any people like us. CAPT. G. (Magisterially.) All people, not like ourselves, are blind idiots. MRS. G. (Wiping her eyes.) Do you think, then, that there are any people as happy as we are? CAPT. G. 'Must be--unless we've appropriated all the happiness in the world. MRS. G. (Looking toward Simla.) Poor dears! Just fancy if we have! CAPT. G. Then we'll hang on to the whole show, for it's a great deal too jolly to lose--eh, wife o' mine? MRS. G. O Pip! Pip! How much of you is a solemn, married man and how much a horrid slangy schoolboy? CAPT. G. When you tell me how much of you was eighteen last birthday and how much is as old as the Sphinx and twice as mysterious, perhaps I'll attend to you. Lend me that banjo. The spirit moveth me to jowl at the sunset. MRS. G. Mind! It's not tuned. Ah! How that jars! CAPT G. (Turning pegs.) It's amazingly different to keep a banjo to proper pitch. MRS. G. It's the same with all musical instruments, What shall it be? CAPT. G. “Vanity,” and let the hills hear. (Sings through the first and hal' of the second verse. Turning to MRS. G.) Now, chorus! Sing, Pussy! BOTH TOGETHER. (Con brio, to the horror of the monkeys who are settling for the night.)-- “Vanity, all is Vanity,” said Wisdom, scorning me-- I clasped my true Love's tender hand and answered frank and free-ee “If this be Vanity who'd be wise? If this be Vanity who'd be wise? If this be Vanity who'd be wi-ise (Crescendo.) Vanity let it be!” MRS. G. (Defiantly to the grey of the evening sky.) “Vanity let it be!” ECHO. (Prom the Fagoo spur.) Let it be! FATIMA And you may go in every room of the house and see everything that is there, but into the Blue Room you must not go.--The Story of Blue Beard. SCENE.--The GADSBYS' bungalow in the Plains. Time, 11 A. M. on a Sunday morning. Captain GADSBY, in his shirt-sleeves, is bending over a complete set of Hussar's equipment, from saddle to picketing-rope, which is neatly spread over the floor of his study. He is smoking an unclean briar, and his forehead is puckered with thought. CAPT. G. (To himself, fingering a headstall.) Jack's an ass. There's enough brass on this to load a mule--and, if the Americans know anything about anything, it can be cut down to a bit only. 'Don't want the watering-bridle, either. Humbug!-Half a dozen sets of chains and pulleys for one horse! Rot! (Scratching his head.) Now, let's consider it all over from the be-ginning. By Jove, I've forgotten the scale of weights! Ne'er mind. 'Keep the bit only, and eliminate every boss from the crupper to breastplate. No breastplate at all. Simple leather strap across the breast-like the Russians. Hi! Jack never thought of that!