Miss JONES, the authoress of _Melancholy Moods_ (in a
Greek dress, with a _pince-nez_: a woman should not combine these
attributes) is next the Squire: he has never heard of any of her
friends the Minor Poets: she takes no interest in Hay, nor in Tithes.
I see the Guardsman and the Beauty looking at each other across the
flowers and things: the language of their eyes is not difficult, nor
pleasant, to read. Why is the champagne so hot, and why are the ices
so salt and hard? I know something is the matter with the claret:
something is always the matter with the claret. It has been iced, and
the champagne has been standing for days in an equable temperature of
65 deg..
[Illustration: "It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, Bielby
_will_ have something to drink, and another cigar--a very large one."]
When they want to go away, it is a wet night, and those who have come
in cabs cannot get cabs to go back in. The Duchess's coachman lost his
way, coming here, she was half-an-hour late: she is anxious about his
finding his way home. GRIGSBY has got at the Psychical-Researcher, and
I hear him telling stories, as personal experiences, which I know are
not true. Psychical-Researchers have no sense of humour. "S.P.R.,"
why not "S.P.Q.R.?" I hear GRIGSBY asking, and suggesting "Society for
Propagating Rubbish." It is very rude of him, and not at all funny.
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