mber of
Parliament, looked amazed, Salemina grew scarlet, the situation was
charged with danger; and, rapidly viewing the various exits, I chose the
humorous one, and told as picturesquely as possible the whole story of
our school of egg-opening in Dovermarle Street, the highly arduous
and encouraging rehearsals conducted there, and the stupendous failure
incident to our first public appearance. Sir Owen led the good-natured
laughter and applause; lords and ladies, Q.C.'s and M.P.'s joined in
with a will; poor Salemina raised her drooping head, opened and ate a
second egg with the repose of a Vere de Vere--and the footman smiled!

Chapter IV. The English sense of humour.

I do not see why we hear that the Englishman is deficient in a sense of
humour. His jokes may not be a matter of daily food to him, as they are
to the American; he may not love whimsicality with the same passion, nor
inhale the aroma of a witticism with as keen a relish; but he likes fun
whenever he sees it, and he sees it as often as most people. It may
be that we find the Englishman more receptive to our bits of feminine
nonsense just now, simply because this is the day of the American
woman in London, and, having been assured that she is an entertaining
personage, young John Bull is willing to take it for granted so long as
she does not try to marry him, and even this pleasure he will allow her
on occasion,--if well paid for it.

The longer I live, the more I feel it an absurdity to label nations with
national traits, and then endeavour to make individuals conform to the
required standard. It is possible, I suppose, to draw certain broad
distinctions, though even these are subject to change; but the habit of
generalising from one particular, that mainstay of the cheap and obvious
essayist, has rooted many fictions in the public mind. Nothing,
for instance, can blot from my memory the profound, searching, and
exhaustive analysis of a great nation which I learned in my small
geography when I was a child, namely, 'The French are a gay and polite
people, fond of dancing and light wines.'

One young Englishman whom I have met lately errs on the side of
over-appreciation. He laughs before, during, and after every remark
I make, unless it be a simple request for food or drink. This is an
acquaintance of Willie Beresford, the Honourable Arthur Ponsonby,
who was the 'whip' on our coach drive to Dorking,--dear, delightful,
adorable Dorking, of hen