BEFORE THE UNVEILING.
_She_. What do you know about MARLOWE?
_He_. Isn't it somewhere near Taplow?
_She_. I think not, because Mr. IRVING went to unveil MARLOWE, and I
don't think he is a rowing-man.
_He_. But he may be doing it for Sir MORELL MACKENZIE, who has a place
at Wargrave.
_She_. Yes, but then the papers would have said something about
it--wouldn't they?
_He_. Very likely; they would say anything in the silly season.
AFTER THE UNVEILING.
_She_. Well, I know all about MARLOWE now. He was a great
poet--greater than SHAKSPEARE, or thereabouts.
_He_. Always thought that they would find some fellow greater than
SHAKSPEARE. SHAKSPEARE always bores me awfully. But what did _this_
fellow write?
_She_. Oh, lots of things! _Faust_, amongst the rest.
_He_. Come, that must be wrong, for _Faust_ was written by GOUNOD.
Wasn't it?
_She_. Now! I come to think of it, I suppose it was--or BERLIOZ.
_He_. Yes, they did it together. But where does MARLOWE come in?
_She_. Well, I am not quite sure.
_He_. You had better write to Mr. IRVING about it; he will tell you.
He's awfully well up in the subject. As for me, I'm still under the
impression that Marlow is somewhere on the river.
* * * * *
HONOURS DIVIDED.
Writers can't speak in public. So says WALTER.
They mumble, stumble, hammer, stammer, falter!
BESANT, why grumble at fate's distribution?
To writers, sense; to speakers, elocution!
Some books are bosh, but all experience teaches
"Rot's" native realm is--After-dinner Speeches!
* * * * *
NOTICE.
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