delicate doubt that o'er the unspoken hovers.
If I were hopeless that you loved me not,
My hopeless love, confess'd, myself would flatter,
But should the blissful dream be true, I wot
That love confess'd the joy of love would shatter.
My Queen, indeed as king I'd love to lord it;
I cannot tell you that I can't afford it.

* * * * *

POSSIBLE EXPLANATION:--"For many months nothing has been heard of
Lieutenant IVANITCH," was the remark of our leading journal _a propos_
of Russian disappearances. Is it not probable that IVANITCH, unable to
find a post to suit him, has gone on tour with a "scratch company"?

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO XVII.

SCENE--_Under the Colonnade of the Hotel Grande Bretagne,
Bellagio. CULCHARD is sitting by one of the pillars, engaged
in constructing a sonnet. On a neighbouring seat a group of
smart people are talking over their acquaintances, and near
them is another visitor, a Mr. CRAWLEY STRUTT, who is
watching his opportunity to strike into the conversation._

_Mrs. Hurlingham._ Well, she'll _be_ Lady CHESEPARE some day, when
anything happens to the old Earl. He was looking quite ghastly when we
were down at SKYMPINGS last. But they're frightfully badly off _now_,
poor dears! Lady DRIBLETT lets them have her house in Park Lane for
parties and that--but it's wonderful how they live at all!

[Illustration: "I don't know if you're acquainted with a paper called
the _Penny Patrician_?"]

_Colonel Sandown._ He looked pretty fit at the Rag the other day. Come
across the SENLACS anywhere? Thought Lady SENLAC was going abroad this
year.

_Mr. Crawley Strutt._ Hem--I saw it mentioned in the _Penny Patrician_
that her Ladyship had--

_Mrs. Hurl._ (_without taking the slightest notice of him_). She's
just been marryin' her daughter, you know--rather a good match, too.
Not what I call pretty,--smart-lookin', that's all. But then her
_sister_ wasn't pretty till she married.

_Col. Sand._ Nice family she married into! Met her father-in-law, old
Lord BLETHERHAM, the other morning, at a chemist's in Piccadilly--he'd
dropped in there for a pick-me-up; and there he was, tellin' chemist
all the troubles he'd had with his other sons marryin' the way they
did, and that. Rum man to go and confide in his chemist, but he's like
that--fond of the vine!

_Mr. C.S._ Er--er--it's becoming