POOR DEAR MAMMA.
The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.
SCENE.—Interior of Miss Minnie Threegan's bed-room at Simla. Miss Threegan, in window-seat, turning over a drawerful of Chiffons. Miss Emma Deercourt, bosom-friend who has come to spend the day, sitting an the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ball-room frock and a bunch of artificial Lilies of the Valley. Time 5·30 P.M., on a hot May afternoon.
Miss Deercourt.—And he said, "I shall never forget this dance," and, of course, I said, "Oh! How can you be so silly!" Do you think he meant anything, dear?
Miss Threegan (extracting long lavender silk stockings from the rubbish).—You know him better than I do.
Miss D.—Oh do be sympathetic, Minnie! I'm sure he does. At least I would be sure, if he wasn't always riding with that odious Mrs. Hagan.
Miss T.—I suppose so. How does one manage to dance through one's heels first? Look at this—isn't it shameful? (Spreads stocking-heel on open hand for inspection.)
Miss D.—Never mind that! You can't mend it. Help me with this hateful bodice. I've run the string so, and I've run the string so, and I can't make the fullness come right. Where would you put this? (Waves Lilies of the Valley.)
Miss T.—As high up on the shoulder as possible.
Miss D.—Am I quite tall enough? I know it makes May Olger look lopsided.
Miss T.—Yes, but May hasn't your shoulders. Her's are like a hock-bottle.
