eyes read the words one's pen has written. Even in drawing-rooms and
boudoirs, it seems, bright eyes have marked these attempts to teach
a correct conversational manner to those who engage in game-shooting.
Here is one letter of the hundreds that _Mr. Punch_ has one by one
pressed to his gallant lips with an emotion that might, perhaps, not
have been expected from one of his years and discretion. But how shall
time or caution prevail against universal love? The flame burns on
with an unquenchable ardour. Beautiful beings, the _Punch_ of your
affections is true to you all. He takes you in a lump and loves you.
He takes you singly and adores you, passionately but paternally. Here,
therefore, is the letter:--

DEAREST MR. PUNCH,

We have all been _so_ delighted to read your articles about shooting.
I read them to Papa after dinner in the drawing-room. Mamma says she
doesn't understand such matters; but, of course, things have altered
_very much_ since her young days, as she is always telling us. Now
I want to ask your opinion about an important point. _Do_ you think
girls ought to go out and join the men at lunch? We all think it _so_
delightful, but FRED, my eldest brother, makes himself _extremely_
disagreeable about it--at least he did till last week, when EMILY
RAYBURN, who is my very _dearest_ friend, was staying with us. Then
he told me we might come for a change, but we were to go home again
directly afterwards. Generally he says that women are _a bore_ out
shooting. _Please_ tell us, dear _Mr. Punch_, what you really think
about it.

With much love, yours always,