A case of basso-infatuation was that of a daughter of an ex-Senator, still prominent in Washington circles, who used to spend all her pin-money in buying presents and baskets of flowers, which she sent to Conley. In some mysterious way her father received a hint of it, and the young lady was sent to the Georgetown convent, where she was educated for a couple of years by way of punishment. She probably did not know that Conley was married. Poor fellow, he was drowned last summer. Castle, though neither so young nor so charming as he once was, still receives loads of gushing epistles, which Mrs. Castle demurely twists into cigar lighters; and Brignoli says, "I haf teached misself ze Inglis language with these liddle letters." In Chicago there resides a wealthy and charming young married lady who entertains handsomely, and is well known in society, but who distracts her elderly husband by a mania for making the acquaintance of every new male singer of note, and entertaining him with the greatest elegance and expense. Of course a majority of these affairs are entered into either in the spirit of romance or mischief, but in either case it is apt to result disastrously, and the world has a cruelly uncomfortably way of stamping them with another and harsher name. Having noticed that there was a stain on the lips of the portrait of Campanini the tenor, hanging in the lobby of the Academy of Music, New York, a visitor called an attendant's attention to it and advised him to wipe it off. "Why, bless you," said the attendant, "we do so every day. That's where the girls kiss it. That picture makes as many mashes as Campy himself, and if he was kissed half as often his lips would be quite worn away. Lord what fools women are, to be sure!" The visitor waited long enough to see a well-dressed and handsome young lady approach and kiss the picture. At least he says he saw it. [Illustration: A MONKEY SPOILING A "MASH."]