AT A VEGETARIAN RESTAURANT.
Scene—"The Nebuchadnezzar's Head," in the City. Time—The luncheon hour. The interior, which is bright, and tastefully arranged, is crowded with the graminivorous of both sexes. Clerks of a literary turn devour "The Fortnightly" and porridge alternately, or discuss the comparative merits of modern writers. Lady-clerks lunch sumptuously and economically on tea and baked ginger-pudding. Trim Waitresses move about with a sweet but slightly mystic benignity, as conscious of conducting a dietetic mission to the dyspeptic.
A Vegetarian Fiancé (who has met his betrothed by appointment, and is initiating her into the mysteries). I wish you'd take something more than a mustard-and-cress roll, though, Louise—it gives you such a poor idea of the thing. (With honest pride.) You just see me put away this plate of porridge. At the "Young Daniel," where I usually lunch, they give you twice the quantity of stuff they do here.
Louise (admiringly). I'm so glad I've seen you lunch. Now I shall be able to fancy every day exactly what you are having.
Her Fiancé (to assist her imagination). Mind you, I don't always have porridge. Sometimes it's mushroom croquettes, or turnip and onion rissoles,—whatever's going. Now yesterday, for instance, I had——
[He details exactly what he had, and she listens to these moving episodes with the rapt interest of a Desdemona.
First Literary Clerk. No; but look here, you don't take my point. I'm not running down Swinburne—all I'm arguing is, he couldn't have written some of the things Browning did.
Second L. C. Of course not—when Browning had written them—that's nothing against him.
First L. C. (warmly). I'm not saying it is. I'm telling you the difference between the two men—now Browning, he makes you think!
Second L. C. He never made me think, that's all I know.
Third L. C. Nor yet me. Now, 'Erbert Spencer, he does make you think, if you like!
First L. C. Now you're getting on to something else. The grand fault I find with Swinburne, is——
Second L. C. Hold hard a bit. Have you read him?
Third L. C. Yes, let's 'ave that first. 'Ave you read 'im?
First L. C. (with dignity). I've read as much of him as I care to.
Second L. C. (aggressively). What have you read of his? Name it.
First L. C. I've read his Atlantis in Caledonia, for one thing.
Second L. C. (disappointed). Well, you don't deny there's poetry in that, do you?
First L. C. I don't call it poetry in the sense I call Walt Whitman poetry—certainly not.
Second L. C. There you touch a wider question—there's no rhyme in Whitman, to begin with.
First L. C. No more there is in Milton; but I suppose you'll admit he's a poet.
[And so on, until none of them is quite sure what he is arguing about exactly, though each feels he has got decidedly the best of it.
First Lady Clerk (at adjoining table, to Second L. C.). How excited those young men do get, to be sure. I do like to hear them taking up such intellectual subjects, though. Now, my brothers talk of nothing but horses, and music-halls, and football, and things like that.
Second L. C. (pensively). I expect it's the difference in food that accounts for it. I don't think I could care for a man that ate meat. Are you going to have another muffin, dear? I am.
An Elderly Lady, with short hair and spectacles (to Waitress). Can you bring me some eggs?
Waitress. Certainly, Madam. How would you like them done—à la cocotte?
