Jones. “Con-found it all! Somebody’s taken my hat, and left this filthy, beastly, shabby old thing instead!”
Brown. “A—I beg your pardon, but that happens to be MY hat!”
THE LADIES’ COLUMN
About Town.
Several ladies have chosen this week for taking walks. As I was popping down Bond Street a few days ago I nearly ran into sweet Lady B., who was dressed in the softest brown, with a dear little robin redbreast perched lovingly in her toque, which was a veritable dernier cri. There is a beautiful story in connection with the little dickey, as Lady B. believes that it is the same little feathered darling she used to feed with crumbs on her window-sill last winter! It is such a joy to her tender heart to feel that her little pensioner will now never be parted from his benefactress—while the toque lasts.
A few minutes later, while I was returning the Countess of A.’s bow, I caught my foot in the marabout of one of our most unconventional and witty American visitors, who is, by the way, the heroine of the following delightful little story. While staying at a country house, not a hundred miles from a certain little white village with red roofs, the house party was taken to a local flower show. At dinner that evening, charming Miss X., who was a member of the party, was asked by her partner if she took an interest in gardening. “I guess I’m only interested in strawberry leaves!” was the witty answer.
