[Enter _Apple_, with a look of pleased importance, and a mouth apparently ready to discharge a witticism.] “Ha! Pulito! Tristo! Quod! What, not a soul here but myself, who am _solus_, he! he! pretty good! I’ll lay that by, and use it when they come. What an ass that Tristo must be, never to laugh at my puns. However, he cannot help himself to-night. I have various good things, aside from puns. If the conversation turns upon wit, I shall say, ‘A witty sentence should be like a scorpion, the sting in the tail, but should not, like a scorpion, sting itself to death!’ If Tristo goes to rating me for smoking, I shall say, ‘A cigar is the _summum bonum_, pity its _fumes_ are not _per_fumes!’ If Nescio says, ‘I am your host’--‘Yes,’ quoth I, ‘and in yourself an _host_.’ That stone will kill two birds; it is at once a pun and a compliment. Ah me! what is the literary world coming to? They all seem bent upon being dull, and the greatest of scriptorial (scriptural?) sins is to say a witty thing. Volumes of poetry and philosophy and oratory and the like come forth, and never a bit of fun in ’em all. Now in my view even a sermon would be vastly better, if the preacher, especially in the application, would discharge at the hearer a few judicious puns of a devotional _cast_. Bless me! where--where--confusion worse confounded! where are my cigars? I can never shine without them. I should be like Sampson shorn of his locks. I shall have to go by a dozen colleges to ----’s to get some. Well! ‘_leve fit, quod bene fertur_,’ ‘that’s a light fit, which is well borne.’ Ha, ha, good! remember that.” As Apple leaves the room, Quod and Tristo, bursting with laughter, issue from their _latebræ_. _Tristo._ “Bravo, Dumpling, bravo.” _Nescio._ “Capital! capital! What if we appear to have just come in when he returns, and give him a chance to be witty--ha, ha!” _Tristo._ “Constat--it is a covenant. But here he comes.” [Enter Apple, puffing with haste, a bunch of cigars in his hand, and a lighted one in his mouth.] _Apple_, (amazed.) “What! you here.” _Tristo_ and _Quod_. “Yes, we’ve just stept in. You, I suppose, didn’t think there was a soul here.” _Apple_, (chuckling.) “No, faith: I expected to be _solus_, myself!” _Quod._ “Why, Dumpling, you are witty to-night.” _Apple._ “A witty sentence should be like a scorpion, the sting in the tail, but should not, like a scorpion, sting itself to death, ha! ha!” _Tristo._ “Excellent! but do, dear Apple, fling away your vile cigars.” _Apple_, (winking.) “A cigar, my dear fellow, is the _summum bonum_--pity its _fumes_ are not _per_fumes.” _Tristo._ “Your wit should not hinder your politeness. I dislike them, and I am your host.” _Apple._ “Yes, and in yourself an _host_, ha! ha!” _Nescio._ “Why, Apple, where on earth do you get so many good things?” _Apple_, (vainly.) “Oh! I don’t know: I believe it comes natural--impromptus.”