as you came home from the Temple. Then we could have sent a telegram!

_Mr. F._ It seemed to be lifting then, and besides, I--ah--regard a
dinner-engagement as a species of kindly social contract, not to be
broken except under pressing necessity.

_Mrs. F._ You mean you heard me say there was nothing but cold
meat in the house, and you know you'll get a good dinner at the
CORDON-BLEWITTS,--not that we are likely to get there to-night. Have
you any idea whereabouts we are?

_Mr. F._ (_calmly_). None whatever.

_Mrs. F._ Then ask PEACOCK.

_Mr. F._ (_lets down his window, and leans out_). PEACOCK!

_The Shadow_. Sir?

_Mr. F._ Where have we got to now?

_Peacock_. I ain't rightly sure, Sir.

_Mrs. F._ Tell him to turn round, and go home.

_Mr. F._ It's no use going on like this. Turn back.

_Peacock_. I dursn't leave the kerb--all I got to go by, Sir.

_Mr. F._ Then take one of the lamps, and lead the horse.