THE MOTHER OF INVENTION.
Mrs. Fred doesn’t care how long she sits for her “dear Fred,” so long as her “darling Freddy” is in some safe place where he can’t get into mischief.
KINDLY MEANT.
Chrome (to friend). Well, and how do I get on with the doublet? Is it more like leather?
Conscientious Friend. Why, no; I can’t say it is—but (apologetically) you’ve got the face very like leather.
Painter (aghast).—Good heavens, man! Where’s your beard? What have you done to your face?
Model. Me, sir? Naethin, but just made my whiskers a wee thing decent wi’ the shears.
Painter. Then you’re an utterly ruined man, sir! and I’m very sorry for you. You’re not worth twopence. Good-morning.