_Cyril_ (_nodding_). ... and the rain falling, falling. And a woman of the
chorus drove up in a taxi, and the man that had the driving of it was
eating an orange. The woman came and sat by the side of me, and the
peroxide in her hair made it gleam like the pale gold coins that were in
the banks before the Great War (_more dreamily_). Never a word said she
when I hung a chain of cold, cold sausages about her neck, but her eyes
were shining, shining, and into my hands she put a tin of corned beef. And
it is destroyed I was with the love of her, and would have kissed her lips
but I saw the park-keeper coming, coming out of the sea for tickets, and I
fled from the strange queer terror of it, and found myself by a lamp-post
in Hackney Wick with the wind rising, rising, and the rain falling,
falling.

[_He stops. The others stare at him and at one another in piteous
inquiry. The women begin keening._ Mr. S.-H. _seizes the remaining egg
and cracks it viciously._

_Mr. S.-H._ (_falling back in his chair_). Damnation!

[_The air is filled with a pungent matter-of-fact odour._ Dora,
_holding her handkerchief to her nose, rushes valiantly at the offender
and hurls it out of the window on to a flower-bed. The_ SYNGE _spell is
broken._

* * * * *

Mr. Punch begs to thank the seven hundred and forty-three correspondents
who have so thoughtfully drawn his attention to the too familiar fact that
"there's many a slip 'twixt the Cup and the LIPTON."