A young man recited 'Gunga Din' and, wilfully misinterpreting the
gratitude of the audience that it was over for a desire for more, had
followed it with 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy.' His sister--these things run in
families--had sung 'My Little Gray Home in the West'--rather sombrely,
for she had wanted to sing the 'Rosary,' and, with the same obtuseness
which characterised her brother, had come back and rendered two
plantation songs. The audience was now examining its programmes in the
interval of silence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentence
still remaining unexpired.

It was shocked to read the following:

7. A Little Imitation......S. Marlowe

All over the saloon you could see fair women and brave men wilting in
their seats. Imitation...! The word, as Keats would have said, was
like a knell! Many of these people were old travellers, and their minds
went back wincingly, as one recalls forgotten wounds, to occasions when
performers at ships' concerts had imitated whole strings of Dickens'
characters or, with the assistance of a few hats and a little false
hair, had endeavored to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare and
others of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme there
was nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which this
S. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and wait
and hope that it would be short.

There was a sinking of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the room
and took his place at the piano. A pianist! This argued more singing.
The more pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to be
one of those imitations of well-known opera artistes which, though