and the gloss of his blue coat, by the application of a drab waistcoat.
But why indulge in speculative dreams when we have realities to detail!

Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite and his beauteous Juliana Theresa (late
Waddledot), for three days, experienced that--

"Love is heaven, and heaven is love."

His imaginary dinner-party became a reality, and the delicate attentions
which he paid to his invisible guest rendered his Juliana Theresa's
life--as she exquisitely expressed it--

"A something without a name, but to which nothing was wanting."

But even honey will cloy; and that sweetest of all moons, the Apian one,
would sometimes be better for a change. Juliana passed the greater portion
of the day on the sofa, in the companionship of that aromatic author, Sir
Edward; or sauntered (listlessly hanging on Collumpsion's arm) up and down
the Steine, or the no less diversified Chain-pier. Agamemnon felt that at
home at least he ought to be happy, and, therefore, he hung his legs over
the balcony and whistled or warbled (he had a remarkably fine D) Moore's
ballad of--

"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms;"

or took the silver out of the left-hand pocket of his trousers, and placed
it in the right-hand receptacle of the same garment. Nevertheless, he was
continually detecting himself yawning or dozing, as though "the idol of
his existence" was a chimera, and not Mrs. Applebite.