AT A VEGETARIAN RESTAURANT.
Scene—"The Nebuchadnezzar's Head," in the City. Time—The luncheon hour. The interior, which is bright, and tastefully arranged, is crowded with the graminivorous of both sexes. Clerks of a literary turn devour "The Fortnightly" and porridge alternately, or discuss the comparative merits of modern writers. Lady-clerks lunch sumptuously and economically on tea and baked ginger-pudding. Trim Waitresses move about with a sweet but slightly mystic benignity, as conscious of conducting a dietetic mission to the dyspeptic.
A Vegetarian Fiancé (who has met his betrothed by appointment, and is initiating her into the mysteries). I wish you'd take something more than a mustard-and-cress roll, though, Louise—it gives you such a poor idea of the thing. (With honest pride.) You just see me put away this plate of porridge. At the "Young Daniel," where I usually lunch, they give you twice the quantity of stuff they do here.
Louise (admiringly). I'm so glad I've seen you lunch. Now I shall be able to fancy every day exactly what you are having.
Her Fiancé (to assist her imagination). Mind you, I don't always have porridge. Sometimes it's mushroom croquettes, or turnip and onion rissoles,—whatever's going. Now yesterday, for instance, I had——
[He details exactly what he had, and she listens to these moving episodes with the rapt interest of a Desdemona.
First Literary Clerk. No; but look here, you don't take my point. I'm not running down Swinburne—all I'm arguing is, he couldn't have written some of the things Browning did.
Second L. C. Of course not—when Browning had written them—that's nothing against him.
First L. C. (warmly). I'm not saying it is. I'm telling you the difference between the two men—now Browning, he makes you think!