OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Baron has dipped into a refreshingly light and airy volume called The Impressions of Aureole, published by Chatto and Windus. Just the volume for the tourist resting awhile from his London-seasonable labours. Aureole does a little bit of everything and enjoys it all. She has the faculty of appreciation for scenes in town and country, at home and abroad. She "sails away in a galliant ship" like Roy Neil's bride into Icebergian regions, where "we pray under our breaths for illuminating sunshine and the ice bink is given us in half-miraculous substitution." "Half-miraculous" is good. Half a miracle better than no miracle at all.
Then on another occasion writes Aureole:—
"We find our way into a gleamy wood, and I gather some crimson berries, oozing from a cool green bank like drops of blood, while unfamiliar blossoms flourish in gay clusters at my feet."
"Personally," says the Baron, speaking for himself, "should not like to gather 'drops of blood.'" Glad that the blossoms were so well behaved as not to be familiar.
How delightful to be on board with our enthusiastic Aureole, and, if she will only trust one with it, enjoy for a few moments the loan of her "ivory lorgnette" with "diamond initials" which "seem to gleam responsively when," says Aureole, "I sweep the horizon with ecstacy."
Aureole, the gadabout and globetrotter, is delightful everywhere. The one touch of domestic nature does come in now and again, and her "dear Bill," her "handsome Bill," her rackety, good-half Bill, on being reminded by Aureole that they have to dine at the Savoy 7.30, exclaims "Confound these blessed bothering cafés. This is five nights running. Can't we chuck the thing?" Then Aureole asks him "What on earth do you want?" "'Want!' why a mutton chop, and a wife, and a whisky-and-soda," says Bill, brutally. And then they go to the "palace of luxury" and "dine with seven other spirits more weary than ourselves." So they might all dirge in chorus the old duet of "Again we come to thee, Savoy!"
The Masked Ball story is very well told—quite a little comedy; and of course all the gay resorts at home and abroad are visited by the lively Aureole. 'Tis a sketch of "How we live now," and must please a number of people who are "in the movement," and a great many more who are out of it, but who like to be up in what is going on, and to imagine that they also could be of the gay world if only they chose. Fill me a bumper of cold (not iced) champagne, which, to Aureole, quaffs
The appreciative Baron de Book-Worms.
P.S. To those among his reading-friends who appreciate the clever and amusing work of "Gyp," the Baron strongly recommends Le Cœur d'Ariane. No necessity to send to "Rue Auber" for it: allez le chercher chez M. Roques, 64, New Bond Street, and see that you get it. The Baron wishes you may get it, as you are certain to enjoy the book immensely. Be prepared to be thoroughly enjôlé by the artless Ariane.