I also took her to the Eton and Harrow match, and talked to her of women's hats and the things she loved, and neglected the cricket.

But she would have none of me.

In the flood tide of my passion she married a scorbutic archdeacon of the name of Jugg.
Then there was a lady whose name for the life of me I can't remember.

It was something ending in "-ine." We quarrelled because we held divergent views on Mr.Wilson Barrett.

Then there was Clothilde, whose tragical story I have already unfolded; Lucy Crooks, who threw me over for this dear, amiable, wooden-headed stockjobbing Latimer; X, Y and Z--but here, let me remark, I was the hunted--mammas spread nets for me which by the grace of heaven and the ungraciousness of the damsels I escaped; and, lastly, my incomparable Eleanor Faversham.