ing pants may be added, but this is optional. Shirts, if
worn, are neutral in tint; white ones are quite _demode_. Vests are
cut low in the neck and with merely a suggestion of sleeve. Trousers
(I blush to write it, dear) are worn baggy at the knee and very varied
in pattern and colour, according to the tastes and occupation of the
wearer. Caps _a la convict_ are _de rigueur_. I believe this to spring
from a delicate sense of sympathy with the many members of the
aristocracy now in prison. The same chivalrous instinct shows itself
in the fashion of close-cropped hair.

"There is a great latitude for individual taste; one tall, handsome
man (known to his friends, I believe, under the sobriquet of 'Kipper')
is always seen in a delicious confection of some gauzy pink and blue
material, which enhances rather than conceals the Apollo-like grace of
his lissome limbs.

"At the Gymkhana the other day (a _very_ smart affair), I saw Mr.
'Pat' Duffy, looking charmingly fresh and cool in a suit of blue
tattooing, which I hear was made for him in Japan by a native lady.

"In Yeomanry circles, a single gold-rimmed eye-glass is excessively
_chic_, and, by the way, in the same set a pleasant folly is to wear a
different coat every day.

"The saloon-deck is less interesting, because less variegated; but
here is a note or too. Caps are usually _cerise_, trimmed with blue
_passementerie_. To be really smart, the moustache must be waxed and
curled upwards in corkscrew fashion. In the best Irish circles beards
are occasionally worn, but it requires much individual distinction to
carry off this daring innovation. And now, dear, I must say good-bye;
but before I close my letter, here is a novel and piquant recipe for
_Breakfast curry_: Catch some of yesterday's Irish stew, thoroughly
disinfect, and dye to a warm khaki colour. Smoke slowly for six hours,
and serve to taste.

"Your affectionate,

"NESTA."

* * * * *

Here is Williams on the wings of prophecy:--

OUR ARRIVAL IN CAPETOWN.

_(With Apologies to "Ouida.")_

"It was sunset in Table Bay--Phoebus' last lingering rays were
empurpling the beetling crags of Table Mountain's snowy peak--the
great ship _Montfort_, big with the hopes of an Empire (on which the
sun never sets), was gliding majestically to her moorings. Countless
craft, manned by lissome blacks or tawny Hottentots, instantly shot
forth from the crowded quays, and surged in pictures