Why do I grin when I see her, as if I was delighted?
Am I?
I don't care a straw for Mrs.Botibol.I know what she thinks about me.

I know what she said about my last volume of poems (I had it from a dear mutual friend).

Why, I say in a word, are we going on ogling and telegraphing each other in this insane way ?--Because we are both performing the ceremonies demanded by the Great Snob Society; whose dictates we all of us obey.
Well; the recognition is over--my jaws have returned to their usual English expression of subdued agony and intense gloom, and the Botibol is grinning and kissing her fingers to somebody else, who is squeezing through the aperture by which we have just entered.

It is Lady Ann Clutterbuck, who has her Friday evenings, as Botibol (Botty, we call her,) has Wednesdays.

That is Miss Clementina Clutterbuck the cadaverous young woman in green, with florid auburn hair, who has published her volume of poems ('The Death-Shriek;' 'Damiens;' 'The Faggot of Joan of Arc;' and 'Translations from the German' of course).