When a silence of this kind occurs in a society entirely composed of two people, it is difficult to put an end to it gracefully, or even naturally; the longer it lasts the more difficult it becomes. First there is a question of which ought to begin; and, as each always decides that the other should, matters are not advanced. Next is the question of what to say; and that is almost as insoluble unless some lucky accident, such as fire, burglars, or an explosion of gas on the premises, should furnish unexpected impersonal matter of interest. Ermengarde almost wished that the kitchen boiler would burst, or the cook be discovered drunk and disorderly on the kitchen stairs--the frost had not been hard enough to burst the water-pipes, and the man never calls for the rates at that hour--for then Arthur would have to say something, though it would probably be unsuitable for publication; while the miserable Arthur could think of no topic unconnected with hats--"What became of those beastly hats of yours? Why not sell the lot?"--cudgel his brains and tear his moustache as he might. Small minds may consider hats as too petty and insignificant to be of any moment in human affairs, but large minds think on a corresponding scale, and even hats bulk grandly in commanding intellects. The Pope has three, for what is a tiara but a hat in full dress? And what intrigues and schemes, what ambitions, heart-burnings and disappointments, what strifes and despairs may encircle the hat of one single Cardinal! Then there is the hat of Gessler upon the historic pole--not the human--how it brightens the dull page of history to the youthful mind, and what exciting things resulted from its transference from its natural elevation to the wooden eminence so familiar on the pictured page of childish memory! The triple hat of a lost industry, that of the extinct Old Clo' man, how rich it was in symbolism! The Quaker tile, immovable as a rock in the presence of man or woman however august, and retained at considerable personal inconvenience in hot rooms and public buildings, how full of meaning and mystery is, or rather was, the Quaker tile! And that hat of the gorgeous East, the turban, with its next-of-kin, the fez or the tarbush; and the metal-pot of the warrior of so many ages and countries, the brazen helmet of the Greek warrior and the modern fireman, and the darker helm of the British soldier and the policeman--are they nothing? Then the busby of the Guardsman, and the feather bonnet of the Highlander, should they be held lightly? And what of the plumed and aitchless hat of the cockney maiden, the cause of Homeric battles, tears, alarms, and excursions to pawnshops; surely that is a serious matter. Moreover, is not the lovely and lustrous headgear, known as the chimney-pot, the sign and symbol of our present civilization? Has not the dusky and otherwise garbless savage been known to stalk among his peers in proud consciousness of