“I don’t see that,” said Rosamond, stoutly.

“Ah!  Lady Rosamond, you are a happy young bride, untaught what is l’impossible.”  Rosamond could not help thinking that no one understood it better than she, as the eldest of a large family with more rank and far more desires than means; but she disliked Lady Tyrrell far too much for even her open nature to indulge in confidences, and she made a successful effort to escape from her neighbourhood by putting two pale female Fullers into the place of honour in front of the folding doors into the small drawing-room, which served as a stage, and herself hovered about the rear, wishing she could find some means of silencing Miss Moy’s voice, which was growing louder and more boisterous than ever.

The charade which Rosamond had expected was the inoffensive, if commonplace, Inspector, and the window she beheld, when the curtain drew up, was, she supposed, the bar of an inn.  But no; on the board were two heads, ideals of male and female beauty, one with a waxed moustache, the other with a huge chignon, vividly recalling Mr. Pettitt’s Penates.  Presently came by a dapper professor, in blue spectacles and a college cap, who stood contemplating, and indulging in a harangue on entities and molecules, spirit and matter, affinities and development, while the soft deep brown eyes of the chignoned head languished, and the blue ones of the moustached one rolled, and the muscles twitched and the heads turned till, by a strong process of will explained by the professor, they bent their necks, erected themselves, and finally started into life and the curtain fell on them with clasped hands!

It rose to show the newly-animated pair, Junius Brutus and Barberina his wife, at the breakfast table, with a boar’s head of brawn before them, while the Lady Barberina boldly asserted her claims to the headship of the house.  Had she not lately been all head?

The pathetic reply was, “Would it were so still, my dear.  All head and no tongue, like our present meal.”

The lady heaved up the boar’s head to throw at him, and the scene closed.

Next, Brutus was seen awkwardly cleaning his accoutrements, having enlisted, as he soliloquized, to escape from woman.

Enter a sergeant with a rich Irish brogue, and other recruits, forming the awkward squad.  The drill was performed with immense spirit, but only one of the soldiers showed any dexterity; but while the sergeant was upholding him as ’the very moral of a patthern to the rest,’ poor Brutus was seized with agonizing horror at the recognition of Barberina in this disguise!

“Why not?” she argued.  “Why should not woman learn to use the arms of which man has hitherto usurped the use?”

Poor Brutus stretched out his arms in despair, and called loudly for the professor to restore him to his original state of silent felicity in the barber’s window.

“Ye needn’t do that, me boy,” quoth the sergeant with infinite scorn.  “Be ye where ye will, ye’ll never be aught but a blockhead.”