Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 6

that the occasion
demanded it.
"Two little gifts," said M'sieur, "of epicurean distinction. The _crêpes_
of Madame Bonneton are an achievement, but the pancakes of Madame
Coghlan are irresistible."
"I thank you from the recesses of my heart," said Hippolyte with
emotion; "but--you understand me--as the slave of Art I am compelled
to forgo such pleasures."
"My friend," said M'sieur sternly, to refuse them would be an affront to
the cooking of these excellent ladies. A true housewife esteems her
cooking only next to her virtue. You must eat them--while they are
hot."
"But my _tremolo_--my sostenuto will be ruined," said Hippolyte
wildly.
"What is your tremolo to a woman's tears?" said M'sieur, with an
elegance born of a fear that he might be compelled to eat the pancakes
himself. "The laws of hospitality--chivalry--_l'entente cordiale_
itself--demand that you finish them."
When Hippolyte finally yielded, his rapid and efficient despatch of the
dainties excited the admiration of his hosts. They had collected their
plates and were taking their departure, with expressions of regard,
when a knock announced the arrival of a _garçon_ from the Café aux
Gourmets, bearing a dish of crisp hot _crêpes_.
"One moment, Messieurs," said Hippolyte dramatically to his departing
visitors. "It must not be said that Hippolyte Larivière lacks in
neighbourly feeling. Behold my seasonable gift!"

M'sieur groaned. The Sergeant-Major, being a soldier, concealed his
apprehensions. Wild thoughts of surreptitiously disposing of them in a
coal-bin whirled through their minds, but Hippolyte apparently divined
their thoughts.
"I regret that I must forgo the pleasure I promised myself of asking the
ladies to take _crêpes_ with me," he said. "To offer these would be a
poor compliment to their superlative efforts. But there is no reason why
you should not eat them here."
"I have an excellent reason," said M'sieur, stroking his waistcoat. "And
the gallant Sergeant-Major, I imagine, has another."
"Bah! what is a little digestive inconvenience to a breach of courtesy?"
cried Hippolyte maliciously. "You must eat them. _The law of
hospitality demands it._"
When M'sieur and the Sergeant-Major stumbled unsteadily downstairs
ten minutes later their eyes bulged with the expression of those whose
cup of suffering is filled to overflowing.
"But after all," as M'sieur remarked, placing his hand on his heart,
whence it insensibly wandered to a point lower down, "it is some
satisfaction to know that the feelings of our excellent wives remain
unlacerated."
* * * * *
[Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.
THE NEW POOR MAKE GOOD.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.
HE SWORE TO BECOME A CINEMA-ACTOR.
AND HE DID.]

* * * * *
SHATTERED ROMANCES.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I read in a weekly paper that "plans are well in
hand for putting up other Government Department buildings at Acton,
which looks to have a future of its own, that of a sort of suburban
Whitehall."
Have you considered what this new departure means for those who,
like myself, are the writers of political romance? To all intents we have
lost the Ball-platz; we have lost the Wilhelmstrasse, and now here is
Whitehall going out into the suburbs.... No doubt our leading Ministers,
attracted by the more salubrious air, will establish themselves in the
environs of the Metropolis, leaving behind them only the lower class of
civil servant. Have you considered the devastating effect of this
change?
Think what we used to give our readers: "A heavy mist lay over
Whitehall. High above the seething traffic the busy wires hummed with
the fate of Empires." How, I ask you, will it look when they read: "The
busy wires above Lewisham High Street hummed with the fate of
Empires"?
Or think of the thrill that was conveyed by this (it comes in three of my
most recent books): "He looked, with a little catch in the throat, and
read the number, 'Ten'--No. 10, Downing Street, where the finger of
fate writes its decrees while a trembling continent waits, where empires
are made and unmade--the hub of the universe...." Doesn't that make
even your heart beat faster? But who will thrill at this: "He waited for a
moment before the bijou semi-detached villa (bath h. and c.), known as
Bella Vista, in Rule Britannia Road, Willesden Junction; then with a
swift glance up and down he stealthily approached. When the neat maid
opened the door, 'Is the Prime Minister in?' he asked?" (He did not hiss.
Who could hiss in that atmosphere?)
Or take this from my last book (shall I ever write its like again?): "Men,
bent with the weight of secrets which, if known, would send a shiver

through the Chancelleries of Europe, could be seen hurrying across the
Mall in the pale light and going towards the great building in which
England's foreign policy is shaped and