Page:Punch (Volume 147).pdf/29

July 8, 1914.] but when I returned in the evening the breakfast-time frown had reappeared with even crinklier ramifications.

"Why," I asked, "are you looking like a tube map?"

"Mrs. Messington-Smith," she answered with a slight catch in her voice, "has just been telephoning."

"I thought the receiver looked a bit played out," I said. "What does she want with us now?"

"Well, she has got a sore throat after all. You could tell that from her voice. And she isn't going to The Purple Lie either. She never even meant to."

"But the tickets," I gasped.

"She and her husband quite forgot about them till to-day," said Arabella. "And now they have given them away to some friends. But they weren't given away at all till this afternoon, and"

She broke off and gave a lachrymose little sniff.

"And what?"

"And she knew, of course, that we're disengaged to-night, and when she got my letter she was just going to send them round to us."



From a testimonial:—

"'I have had this cover on the rear wheel of my 3 h.p. Humber Motor Cycle and have ridden same 7,000 miles, six of these without a puncture.'—Advt. in 'Motor Cycle.'"

When we tell you that the mystic letters mean "married couple," you will share our horror.



ancient unsophisticated days Women were valued for their cloistered ways, And won at Rome encouragement from man Only because they stayed at home and span; While Pericles in Attic Greek expressed The view that those least talked about were best. There were exceptions, but the normal Greek Regarded Sappho as a dangerous freak, And Clytemnestra for three thousand years Was pelted with unmitigated sneers, Till Richard Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal combined To prove that she was very much maligned.

But now at last these cloistered days are o'er And woman, breaking down her prison door, Is free to take the middle of the floor. No more for her indomitable soul The meekly ministering angel rôle; No more the darner of her husband’s socks, She takes delight in watching champions box, Finds respite from the carking cares that vex us In cheering blows that reach the solar plexus, Joins in the loud and patriotic shout While beaten is being counted out, And—joy that makes all other joys seem nil— Writes her impressions for The Daily Thrill. 