Hostess. "Don't you sing, Mr. Binks?" Binks. "No—er—I—hum—er——" Hostess. "Oh, I'm afraid you wouldn't be heard in this large room. Thanks, so much!"
[Terrible disappointment of Binks, who was simply dying to recite "Tam o' Shanter."
AT THIRTY.
She. Will the new curate be engaged or not?
He. Close thing! Shall I have nerve to make the shot?
She. Is flirting really now a sort of sinning?
He. Is my neat middle parting really thinning?
She. Now shall I get a partner for this dance?
He. Old Boodles leaving! Shall I have a chance?