I can see her again as I saw her that evening, in spangles and tights.

When I spoke to her first, her eye flashed so, I heard—as I fancied—the spark whiz

From her eyelid—I said so next day to that jealous old fool of a Marquis.

She reminded me, Bill, of a lovely volcano, whose entrails are lava—

Or (you know my penchant for original types) of the upas in Java.

In the curve of her sensitive nose was a singular species of dimple,

Where the flush was the mark of an angel's creased kiss—if it wasn't a pimple.

Now I'm none of your bashful John Bulls who don't know a pilau from a puggaree

Nor a chili, by George, from a chopstick. So, sir, I marched into her snuggery,

[Pg 409]

And proposed a light supper by way of a finish. I treated her, Bill,

To six entrées of ortolans, sprats, maraschino, and oysters. It made her quite ill.

Of which moment of sickness I took some advantage. I held her like this,

And availed myself, sir, of her sneezing, to shut up her lips with a kiss.

The waiters, I saw, were quite struck; and I felt, I may say, entre nous,

Like Don Juan, Lauzun, Almaviva, Lord Byron, and old Richelieu.

(You'll observe, Bill, that rhyme's quite Parisian; a Londoner, sir, would have cited old Q.

People tell me the French in my verses recalls that of Jeames or John Thomas: I

Must maintain it's as good as the average accent of British diplomacy.)

These are moments that thrill the whole spirit with spasms that excite and exalt.

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