Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/482

Dearest Daphne,—The season, if one must call it so, seems by way of resolving itself into a series of Matinées (with an object), and of restaurant dinners and suppers, and theatre-parties. People are too serious for anything more this summer. And yet, in certain quarters, there've been most unkind comments on "Gorgonzola's and "Kickshaw's" being crammed for dinner and supper every night, and the stalls and boxes of the "Sans Souci," being always full of people laughing à gorge déployée at the delicious absurdity of Harry Capers and Evy de Colty, in Garn! You're Kidding! These silly critics don't realise that all this is because we're too serious for any private entertaining, or for much racing, or any of the usual functions.

Lady Manoeuverer is at her wits' end. "Here am I," she said to me to-day, "with two girls still on my hands. I meant to bring Rosemary out in London this year, and now there's virtually no London to bring her out in! Mary St. Neots was saying yesterday that this is a cruel War for the mothers of sons—it's crueller, if possible, for the mothers of daughters! I really see nothing for me and the girls, Blanche, except to go and be benevolent somewhere. Isn't it a frightful ending to all my hopes and plans for the poor darlings?"

Mais, que voulez-vous? Everyone's got to suffer in some way. There's Lala Middleshire, for instance. The worry and anxiety of her husband's being in the Anti-Aircraft Corps has tried her so that she found it quite imposs to live a quiet, home life. Sir William Kiddem was called in, said it was a complicated case, and agreed that Lala's own remedy for herself—coming out as a stage performer―might prove the very nerve tonic she needed. She's always had a wonderful talent for turning cart-wheels—no acrobat could do it much better—and has been constantly asked, at private and semi-private parties, to show her skill. (It was at a party at Dunstable House, years ago, after she'd surpassed herself in turning cart-wheels, that Middleshire asked her to dire le grand oui.) Well, and so, when it got known that her state of nervous tension during her husband's hours of duty made it necessary she should take a stage engagement, she'd plenty of offers from managers. She accepted the best one, and "The Duchess of Middleshire will Turn Cart-Wheels" was put in as an extra attraction in the Pantechnicon revue, Absolutely Top-notch. We all went to see her the first night, and, after she'd cart-wheeled right across the stage and back again we fairly rose at her, and in a minute she was up to her knees in flowers. Her engagement at the Pantechnicon is over now, but the state of her nerves, though improved, yet made quietness dangerous, so she's going the round of the suburban halls; and, if she's not all right after that, Sir William Kiddem says he gives her permission to tour the provinces.

How differently troubles affect people of different birth, my Daphne! A woman of long descent like Lala (she was a Montilol, you know, and they boast the blood of Plantagenet, and have an old, hereditary right to stand in the presence of the Sovereign with their arms akimbo) has such a high-strung organisation and such a delicate poise that any worry and anxiety make it imperative she should be got out of herself. On the other hand, Lady Exborough, who was a Miss Nobody of Nowhere, and whose husband is at the Front, shuts herself up and is never seen at restaurant dinners or suppers or at the theatre or anywhere. One would think quietness and seclusion would be insupportable to her in the circumstances, but ces autres have blunt feelings, I believe.

Apart from the great subject, perhaps the most burning question at present is, How long ought the war-wisp to be? (The war-wisp, dearest, is the lock of hair now worn in front of each ear.) Myself I hold that it should steal gently down past the ear, just trespass unobtrusively on the cheek, and then stop. With these war-wisps it's correct to wear a faraway look, faintly touched with anxiety. The idea is that one's thinking of somebody in Flanders, or the Dardanelles, or the North Sea. Some people, however, overdo everything. For instance, Peggy Preston's war-wisps reach nearly to the corners of her mouth, and, though she's no personal worry about the war, she overdoes the faraway frown to such extent that the other night, when she came into "Gorgonzola's" with a party for supper, I heard a man at a table say to his friend, "My hat! Here's a woman going mad while you wait!" I thought it only kind to tell her, later, what I'd heard.

Dear Professor Dinsdale is working day and night at some marvellous experiments that may end the war quite suddenly and prevent all future wars. Isn't that lovely? Of course everything's being kept very secret, but I may tell you this, he's discovered a drug of tremendous strength (not cruel or painful in its effects—he wouldn't do such a thing!). It's a narcotic of undreamt of power, and the idea is for aeroplanes to fly over the enemy's army and drop this down in a liquid form (it only acts when dropped from above, so the airmen would be safe). It takes effect on those below while it's still a long way up in the air, and half a pint of it, scattered in drops, is enough to put a whole army corps into a deep sleep. So there it is, Daphne! When the enemy's whole army is in profound slumber, it will only remain for us to find their Commander-in-Chief, wake him, and dictate terms of peace! The waking will be done with an antidote the Professor's now at work on. The laboratory is guarded day and night, and the dear Professor himself wears a bullet-and-dagger-proof waistcoat and his soft felt hat has been fitted with a steel lining.

A story is being whispered about an escapade of Beryl Clarges'. She was week-ending with some people at a Place on the Coast. Off this Place on the Coast was lying a certain British Warship, which one afternoon gave a thé dansant to which Beryl and the others went. You know what she is—nothing would satisfy her but to be shown just what they do when going into action. She insisted on knowing how the guns were trained and loaded and all that; teased and coaxed them to show her exactly what was done when a broadside was to be fired, and kept on urging them to show her a little more and a little more—till at last things went too far—and a real broadside was fired! All the windows of a Place on the Coast were broken; all the natives thought their last hour had struck; the little pier and parade became only a memory, and Beryl clapped her hands and yelled for joy! And now Somebody's been severely reprimanded and has lost five years' seniority, while the real culprit goes on her way rejoicing. Certainly, there's this to be said—it would be no punishment to poor, dear Beryl to lose five years' seniority!

Ever thine, Blanche.

All battalions were recently warned to keep a careful watch for any contrivances which the Germans might use with the object of producing poisonous gases. Shortly afterwards a certain regiment on taking over some trenches, found an old bag-pipe left in the lines. At once the Colonel (a southron) sent the following message to Brigade Headquarters:—A weird instrument has just been discovered in my trenches; it is believed to be used for producing asphyxiating noises."