self-satisfied simpers, and flowers in their buttons; the old, stiff,
stout, bald-headed CONVERSAZIONE ROUES, whom You meet everywhere--who
never miss a night of this delicious enjoyment; the three last-caught
lions of the season--Higgs, the traveller, Biggs, the novelist, and
Toffey, who has come out so on the sugar question; Captain Flash, who is
invited on account of his pretty wife and Lord Ogleby, who goes wherever
she goes.

QUE SCAIS-JE? Who are the owners of all those showy scarfs and white
neckcloths?--Ask little Tom Prig, who is there in all his glory, knows
everybody, has a story about every one; and, as he trips home to his
lodgings in Jermyn Street, with his gibus-hat and his little glazed
pumps, thinks he is the fashionablest young fellow in town, and that he
really has passed a night of exquisite enjoyment.

You go up (with our usual easy elegance of manner) and talk to Miss
Smith in a corner. 'Oh, Mr. Snob, I'm afraid you're sadly satirical.'

That's all she says. If you say it's fine weather, she bursts out
laughing; or hint that it's very hot, she vows you are the drollest
wretch! Meanwhile Mrs. Botibol is simpering on fresh arrivals; the
individual at the door is roaring out their names; poor Cacafogo is
quavering away in the music-room, under the impression that he will be
LANCE in the world by singing inaudibly here. And what a blessing it is
to squeeze out of the door, and into the street, where a half-hundred of
carriages are in waiting; and where the link-boy, with that unnecessary
lantern of his, pounces upon all who issue out, and will insist upon
getting your noble honour's lordship's cab.

And to think that there are people who, after having been to Botibol on