A select party of Philistines, comprising a young Man, apparently in the Army, and his Mother and Sister, are examining Mr. GILBERT'S Jubilee Trophy in a spirit of puzzled antipathy.
The Mother. Dear me, and that's the Jubilee centrepiece, is it? What a heavy-looking thing. I wonder what that cost?
Her Son (gloomily). Cost? Why, about two days' pay for every man in the Service!
His Mother. Well, I call it a shame for the Army to be fleeced for that thing. Are those creatures intended for mermaids, with their tails curled round that glass ball, I wonder? [She sniffs.
Her Daughter. I expect it will be crystal, Mother.
Her Mother. Very likely, my dear, but—glass or crystal—I see no sense in it!
Daughter. Oh, it's absurd, of course—still, this figure isn't badly done, is it supposed to represent St. GEORGE carrying the Dragon? Because they've made the Dragon no bigger than a salmon!
Mother. Ah, well, I hope HER MAJESTY will be better pleased with it than I am, that's all.
[After which they fall into ecstasies over an industrial exhibit, consisting of a drain-pipe, cunningly encrusted with fragments of regimental mess-china set in gilded cement.
Before a large mechanical clock, representing a fortress, which is striking. Trumpets sound, detachments of wooden soldiers march in and out of gateways, and parade the battlements, clicking, for a considerable time.
A Spectator (with a keen sense of the fitness of things). What—all that for on'y 'alf-past five!