Mr. S. (halting in front of them).  You two seem ’ighly amused at something.  What’s the joke?

Second Girl (as the first is compelled to bury her face behind her friend’s back).  Don’t you be too curious.  I’ll tell you this much—­at your expense!

Mr. S. Oh, is it?  Then you might let Me ’ave a a’porth!

First Girl.  BELLA, if you tell him, I’ll never speak to you again.

    [As there is nothing particular to tell, Miss BELLA
    preserves the secret.

Mr. S. (reconnoitring his rear suspiciously).  There’s nothing pinned on to my coat-tails, is there? (Renewed mirth from the couple.) Well, I see you’re occupied—­so, good evenin’.

    [Walks on, with offended dignity.

Second Girl.  There!  I knew how it would be—­he’s gone off in a huff now!

First Girl.  Let him!  He ought to know better than take offence at nothing.  And such a ridic’lous little object as he’s looking, too!  What else can he expect, I’d like to know!...  Don’t you feel it chilly, sitting still?

Second Girl (rising with alacrity).  I was just thinking.  Suppose we take a turn—­the other way round, or he might think—­

First Girl.  We’ll show him others have their pride as well as him. [They disappear in the crowd.

Mr. Spiffing (repassing a few minutes later, with one of the young Ladies on each arm).  Well, there, say no more about it—­so long as it wasn’t at Me, I don’t mind! [They pass on.

A Wheezy Matron (in a shawl).  She was a prettier byby in the fice than any o’ the others—­sech a lydylike byby she was—­we never ’ad no bother with her! and never, as long as I live, shall I forgit her Grandpa’s words when he saw her settin’ up in her ’igh cheer at tea, with her little cheeks a marsk o’ marmalade.  “LOUISER JYNE,” he sez, “you mark my words—­she’s the on’y reelly nice byby you ever ’ad, or will ave!”

Her Comp.  An’ he wasn’t given to compliments in a general way, neither, was he?

Anxious Mother.  I can’t make him out.  Sometimes I think he means something, and yet,—­Every morning we’ve been here, he’s come up to her on the Pier, and brought her a carnation inside of his ’at.

Her Confidante.  Then depend upon it, my dear, he has intentions. I should say so, certingly!

The Mother.  Ah, but CARRIE tells me she’s dropped her glove, accidental-like, over and over again, and he’s always picked it up,—­and handed it back to her.  I reelly don’t know what to think!

The Confidante.  Well, I wouldn’t lose heart—­with the moon drawin’ on to the full, as it is!

A Seaside Siren (conscious of a dazzling complexion—­to a suburban Ulysses).  I wish I could get brown—­I think it’s so awfully becoming—­but I never can!