To resume:--

For the nonce, I will head them merely for my own personal information, "Sayings for Sunday."

_Happy Thought._--Good Hebdomadal Alliterative Series.

Sayings for Sundays. _1 Vol._

Mysteries for Mondays. _do._

Tales for Tuesdays. _do._

Wit for Wednesdays.

Themes for Thursdays.

Fun for Fridays.

Sonnets for Sat.u.r.days.

And then, all, in a monthly volume, as Medleys for the Month. I distinctly see Popgood and Groolly's rapid and colossal fortune. Then there'd be a quarterly. Why not _Quarterly Quips_? No, this is not sufficiently general. [N.B. Joke by a man on a treadmill might be termed a _Quip on a Crank_.]

_Happy Thought._--_Quant.i.ty and Quality, a Quarterly Quintessence._ _Quips, Quiddities, Quibbles, and Quirks_, by ... dear me, I want to say "ready writers"--that's the style of _nom de plume_ required.

_Plume_ is suggestive. I have it.

_Happy Thought._--"_Quick Quills._" Popgood's advertis.e.m.e.nt will say, "The above Quarterly by Quick Quills."

Now I'll begin.

Knock at the door. Mr. Orby Frimmely wants to know if I will stroll out with him and meet the Signor returning.

With pleasure. Leave the sayings for another Sunday.

We stroll.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AWAY!]

CHAPTER XIX.

A WALK WITH SIGNOR REGNIATI.

_THE PROSAIC GENTLEMAN._

_Weather fine. We are out for a walk. Mr. Orby Frimmely, of the City, represents the Prosaic. I put myself down as the Poetic, and the Signor as the Enthusiastic. To us a small man in clerical black and Roman collar._

_The Signor_ (_saluting cleric_). Ah, Father Cuthbert. 'Ow you do?

(_Introduces us._) You 'ave got beautiful flowers.

_Father C._ (_alluding to the bunch in his hand_). _Flores martyrum._ You have heard that we are ordered off for active service in China.

_Self._ China! (_We see in our "mind's eye, Horatio" the fearful tortures recently practised upon Christians in China and are speechless._)

_Frimmely_ (_the Prosaic_). Ah! You must take care what you're about there. (_Surprise of the Reverend F. Cuthbert._) The Government won't protect you, you know (_he says this as if the reverend gentleman was going to China to rob an orchard_).

_Father C._ No. It will not. (_n.o.bly._) We go to suffer and to preach the faith.

_Signor._ Oh, my Jo! I should not like to be eat. I 'ope you vill not go. Let us know before you start.

_Father C._ (_cheerfully_). It is certain. I'm afraid I shan't be at the College to see you next Sunday. Good-bye.

[_Exit Father C._

_We continue our walk._

_Myself_ (_the poetical_). Ah! What a grand lot! What a high and holy calling. Here we are, striving for comfort, and perhaps for fame, there the missioner goes forth, to die, perhaps in torments, unknown to the world until the Day of Doom.

[_I am impressed and silent._]

_Signor._ Oh, my Jo! I vould not go to be eat. (_n.o.bly, and in true Christian spirit._) I vould say let me go, and I vill run a-vays.

_Frimmely_ (_the Prosaic_). Martyr!... Well, I wouldn't mind being a martyr if I'd been brought up to it. I don't see why you should waste sentiment on Father Cuthbert or anybody else whose profession it is.

(_Repeating incisively_) It's his profession, his business, to be uncomfortable, and, finis coronat opus, martyrdom signifies in his line, success. (_We are silent and he continues further to instruct us._) You Catholics (_to the Signor_), you know, have colleges of Missioners in training; I've seen 'em. As in a Law College there would be portraits of Chief Justices and celebrated Q.C.'s in the costumes of their rank, so in a Missioners' College you have pictures of Celebrated Martyrs in the peculiar Costumes of their particular torments. It's a regular business, with _you_ I mean, not so much with Protestants. We do it more comfortably. With us it's rather a question of a foreign appointment, with a good income.

_The Signor._ Vell--(_considering_). I am ongry. Let us go an' eat some-sing.

[Ill.u.s.tration: eTRE MARTYR .... SON MeTIER.]

CHAPTER XX.

A SUNDAY CONVERSATION.

_Miss Adelaide_ (_warming her toes on the fender before sitting down to luncheon_). Oh, how cold it was in Church.

_Captain Byrton._ Wasn't it. Upon my word if they expect people to go, they ought to keep the place warm.

_Chilvern._ It was so cold I couldn't go to sleep during the sermon (_knives and forks at work_).

_Cazell._ It wasn't such a very bad sermon. Pickles, please! Thanks.

_Myself_ (_showing some interest_). Who preached?