[_The great_ M. PAULUS _appears and sings several Chansons in a confidentially lugubrious tone, and with his forefingers thrust into his waistcoat pockets. Curiously enough, our_ FIRST BRITON _is less successful in following_ M. PAULUS _than he was with the Artistes who preceded him--but this is entirely owing to the big drum and cymbals, which will keep coming in and putting him out--something in this manner_:-- M. PAULUS. Et quand j'rentr', ce n'est pour rien-- Ma belle me dit: "Mon pauv' bonhomme, Tu n'a pas l'air de"--(_The cymbals_: brim-brin-brien!) Ell' m' flanqu' des giffl's--(_The drum_: pom-pom-pom-pom!) _Refrain_ (_which both Britons understood_). "Sur le bi--sur le bô; sur le bô, de bi, de bô. Sur le bô--sur le bi; sur le bi, de bô, de bi!" &c., &c., &c. FIRST BRITON (_after twenty minutes of this sort of thing_). That's the end, I suppose. They've let down the curtain. _Capital_, wasn't he? I could listen to him all night! SECOND B. (_as they pass out_). So could I--delightful! Don't know when I've enjoyed anything so much. The other people don't seem to be moving, though. (_Consults programme._) There's another Part after this; Paulus is singing again. I suppose you'll stay? FIRST B. Well--it's rather late, isn't it? SECOND B. (_much relieved_). Yes. Not worth while going back now (_with a yawn_). We must come here again. FIRST B. (_making a mental resolution to return no more_). Oh, we must; nothing like it on our side of the Channel, y' know. SECOND B. (_with secret gratitude_). No, we can't do it. (_Walk back to their hotel in a state of great mental exhaustion, and finish the evening with a bock on the Boulevards._) At a Garden Party SCENE--_A London Lawn. A Band in a costume half-way between the uniforms of a stage hussar and a circus groom, is performing under a tree. Guests discovered slowly pacing the turf, or standing and sitting about in groups._ MRS. MAYNARD GERY (_to her_ _Brother-in-law_--_who is thoroughly aware of her little weaknesses_). Oh, Phil,--you know everybody--_do_ tell me! Who is that common-looking little man with the scrubby beard, and the very yellow gloves--how does he come to be _here_? PHIL. Where? Oh, I see him. Well--have you read _Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece_? MRS. M. G. No--_ought_ I to have? I never even heard of it! PHIL. Really? I wonder at that--tremendous hit--you must order it--though I doubt if you'll be able to get it. MRS. M. G. Oh, I shall _insist_ on having it. And _he_ wrote it? Really, Phil, now I come to look at him, there's something rather striking about his face. Did you say _Sabrina's Niece's Other Aunt_--or what? PHIL. _Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece_ was what I _said_--not that it signifies. MRS. M. G. Oh, but I always attach the greatest importance to names, myself. And do you know him? PHIL. What, Tablett? Oh, yes--decent little chap; not much to say for himself, you know.