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read his verses; he was scarcely aware of their excellence.

How should he; how should he? One makes but slight account of one's own. It is a pretty thing enough in its way; but you honour it too much, perhaps. He, he, he! (Chuckling and rubbing his hands.) Don't you think so, Lady Tweedle? Don't you think so, Miss Fussit? Don't you think so, my love?

You tread on my flounces, my Lord. Honour such a poem too much? it is impossible! I'll have a gadfly painted on my fan, and worship it.

So will I—so will we all.

And what more will you do, dear ladies, to honour your divine poet?

And our divine orator, too, Mr. O'Honikin.

Crown their busts with laurels, my Lady Worrymore, with your own fair hands.

Charming! that is the classical tribute which