"So we shall," cried all the hens as they scurried after the fat one.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Officer (to applicant for War-work)._ "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
_Ex-flapper._ "CISSIE"]

* * * * *

THE FAVORITE.

Some people would die rather than talk aloud in a 'bus; others would rather
die than hold their peace there. This second kind is more fun, and four of
it made part of my journey the other day from Victoria to Oxford Street (I
forget the number of the 'bus, but it goes up Bond Street) much less
tedious. They were all young women in the latest teens or the earliest
twenties, and all were what is called well-to-do, and they were fluent
talkers.

Years ago, when poor LEWIS WALLER was at the height of his fame, we used to
hear of a real or fictitious "Waller Club," the members of which were young
women who spent as much time as they could in visiting his theatre and
rejoicing in the sight of his brave gestures and the sound of his vibrant
voice. It was even said that they had a badge by which they could know each
other; although on the face of it, judging by what sparse scraps of
information concerning the nature of woman I have been able painfully to
collect, I should say that segregation would be, in such a case as this,
more to their taste.