Private Box.
ell, my dear Mr. Punch, you, who hear everything, will be glad to receive from me the particulars of our Annual Farewell Charity Fête, given this year at the Grafton Gallery for the excellent object of providing the undeserving with pink carnations. It was a bazaar, a concert, and a fancy-dress ball, all in one; everyone who is anyone was there, and as they were all in costume, nobody could tell who was who. It was indeed a very brilliant scene.
I refused to hold a stall, for I had enough to do writing out autographs of celebrities (they sell splendidly), but it was hard work, and there was an absurd fuss just because I made the trifling mistake of signing "Yours truly, George Meredith" across a photograph of Arthur Roberts. What did it matter? I really cannot see that it made the slightest difference; the person had asked for an autograph of Meredith and he got it, and a portrait of Roberts into the bargain! so he ought to have been satisfied; but some people are strangely exacting! There was a great run on the autograph of Sarah Bernhardt and I grew quite tired of signing Yvette, Rosebery, and Cissie Loftus, however, it was all for the charity. I went as a Perfect Gentleman, and it was quite a good disguise—hardly anyone knew me! I saw Sir Bruce Skene dressed as a Temperance Lecturer; Gringoire was there as the Enemy of the People with a bunch of violets in his button-hole; the New Boy went as Becket, and Charley's Aunt as the Yellow Aster. The Gentleman of France looked well as The Prisoner of Zenda. I recognised our old friend Dorian Gray in a gorgeous costume of purple and pearls, with a crown on his head of crimson roses. He said he had come as a Prose Poem, and he was selling Prose Poem-granates for the good of the charity.
Here are some scraps of conversation I overheard in the crowd:—
Enemy of the People (to Sir Bruce Skene). Been having a good time lately?
Sir Bruce. Rather! Tremendous! I've been doing nothing but backing winners, and, what's more—(chuckling)—I've at last got that astronomer fellow to take my wife and child off my hands. Isn't that jolly?
Enemy of the People. Ah, really? She is coming to us in the autumn, you know.
Vivien, the Modern Eve (to the New Boy). I cannot stay here any longer. They never dust the drawing-room, the geraniums are planted all wrong, and I do not like the anti-macassars. Will you come with me?
New Boy. What a lark it would be! But I'm afraid I must stay and look after my white mice. You see, Bullock Major——