She. Ah, yes. "Far from the madding crowd," as the poet says.
He. Yes. What a great poet Milton is, to be sure.
She. Oh, delightful! And don't you like Miss Wheeler Wilcox?
He. Of course—ripping, yes, of course. Her poems of pleasure—her poems of passion, her—well, in fact, all her poems.
She. Quite.
At this point the man broke down altogether and began to gibber. But he recovered in time to see the prize unanimously voted to the lady. This consisted of a volume of Mr. —— but perhaps I had better not mention names; it might be liable to misconstruction. I hope I have said enough to show what a fascinating and delightful game it is. No appliances are required (as with dominoes), except one's own nimble brain; and I think Platitudes will soon sweep the country. Signs are not wanting that Clumps and Dumb Crambo are already becoming back numbers in the best circles.
"The military dirigible Koerting made the wound in the leg of Baron de Rothschild. It was found to have flattened itself against the bone."—Egyptian Mail.
"The Koerting; so it is," said the Baron, when shown the X-ray photograph of his calf.