SHOWMAN. Some people think this is all done by mirrors, but it is not so; it is managed by a simple arrangement of light and shade. She will now turn slowly round, to convince you that she is really inside the urn and not merely beyind it. (_She turns round condescendingly._) She will next pass her 'ands completely round her, thereby demonstrating the utter impossibility of there being any wires to support her. Now she will rap on the walls on each side of her, proving to you that she is no reflection, but a solid reality, after which she will tap the bottom of the urn beneath her so that you may see it really is what it purports to be. (SHE _performs all these actions in the most obliging manner_.) She will now disappear for a moment. (SHE _sinks into the Urn_.) Are you still there, She? SHE (_from the recess of the Urn_). Yes. SHOWMAN. Then will you give us some sign of your presence? (_a hand and arm are protruded and waved gracefully_). Thank you. Now you can come up again. (SHE _reappears_.) She will now answer any questions any lady or gentleman may like to put to her, always provided you won't ask her how it is done--for I'm sure she wouldn't give me away, _would_ you, She? SHE(_with a slow bow and gracious smile_). Certingly not. THE F. S. (_to her_ COMPANION). Ask her something--do. HER COMP. Go on! _I_ ain't got anything to ask her--ask her yourself! A BOLDER SPIRIT (_with interest_). Are your _feet_ warm? SHE. Quite--thenks. THE SHOWMAN. HOW old are you, She? SHE (_impressively_). Two theousand years. 'ARRY. And quite a young thing, too! A SPECTATOR (_who has read the Novel_). 'Ave you 'eard from Leo Vincey lately? SHE (_coldly_). I don't know the gentleman. SHOWMAN. If you have no more questions to ask her, She will now retire into her Urn thenking you all for your kind attendance this morning, which will conclude the entertainment. [_Final disappearance of_ SHE. _The Audience pass out, feeling--with perfect justice--that they have "had their money's worth."_ IN THE MALL ON DRAWING-ROOM DAY. _The line of carriages bound for Buckingham Palace is moving by slow stages down the Drive. A curious but not uncritical crowd, consisting largely of females, peer into the carriages as they pass, and derive an occult pleasure from a glimpse of a satin train and a bouquet. Other spectators circulate behind them, roving from carriage to carriage, straining and staring in at the occupants with the childlike interest of South Sea Islanders. The coachmen and footmen gaze impassively before them, ignoring the crowd to the best of their ability. The ladies in the carriages bear the ordeal of popular inspection with either haughty resignation, elaborate unconsciousness, or amused tolerance, and it is difficult to say which demeanour provokes the greatest resentment in the democratic breast._