Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, March 26, 1892

Excerpt

HOSPITALITY À LA MODE.

["Programmes and introductions are going out of fashion at balls."—Weekly Paper.]

SCENE—Interior of a Drawing-room during a dance. Sprightly Damsel disengaged looking out for a partner. She addresses cheerful-looking Middle-aged Gentleman, who is standing near her.

She. I am not quite sure whether I gave you this waltz?

He. Nor I. But I hope you did. I am afraid it is nearly over, but we shall still have time for a turn. [They join the dancers.

She. Too many people here to-night to make waltzing pleasant.

He. Yes, it is rather crowded. Shall we sit out?

She (thankfully, as he has not quite her step.) If you like. And see, the band is bringing things to a conclusion. Don't you hate a cornet in so small a room as this? So dreadfully loud, you know.

He. Quite. Yes, I think it would have been better to have kept to the piano and the strings.

She. But the place is prettily decorated. It must have cost them a lot, getting all these flowers.

He. I daresay. No doubt they managed it by contract. And lots of things come from Algeria nowadays. You can get early vegetables in winter for next to nothing.

She. Yes, isn't it lovely? All these palms, I suppose, came from the Stores.

He. No doubt. By the way, do you know the people of the house at all?

She. Not much. Fact was, I was brought. Couldn't find either the host or hostess. Such a crowd on the staircase, you know.

He. Yes. Rather silly asking double the number of people the rooms will hold, isn't it?

She. Awfully. However, I suppose it pleases some folks. I presume they consider it the swagger thing to do?

He. I suppose they do. Do you know many people here?

She. Not a soul, or—

He. You would not have spoken to me?

She. Well, no—not exactly that. But—

He. You have no better excuse ready. Quite.

She. How rude you are! You know I didn't quite mean that.

He. No, not quite. Quite.

She. By the way, do you know what time it is?

He. Well, from the rooms getting less crowded, I fancy it must be the supper hour. May I not take you down?

She. You are most kind! But do you know the way?

He. I think so. You see, I have learned the geography of the place fairly well.

She. How fortunate! But if I accept your kindness, I think I should have the honour of knowing your name.

He. Certainly; my name is SMITH.

She. Any relation of the people who are giving the dance?

He. Well, yes. I am giving the dance myself—or rather, my wife is.

She. Oh, this is quite too delightful! For now you can tell me what to avoid.

He. Certainly; and I have the pleasure of speaking to—?

She. You must ask my chaperon for my name. You know, introductions are not the fashion.

He. And your chaperon is—?

She. Somewhere or other. In the meanwhile, if you will allow me?

He (offering his arm). Quite!

[Exeunt to supper.

No. 1.—"LITTLE MISS MUFFIT."

Little Miss MUFFIT

Reposed on a tuffet,

Consuming her curds and whey—

She had dozens of dolls,

And some cash in Consols

Put by for a rainy day....