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 "What I wish to know," I demanded, being well aware that I could not argue her out of this position, "is the exact number of my friends you have slandered. Do you know that my aunt was speaking of the very flower of the aristocracy? Now tell me instantly, how long has this gone on?"

"Oh! about a quarter of an hour," says she, with an intolerable impudence, "and I spoke with the rapidity of a woman who is scandalous. Gad! I have played my part remarkably."

"Oh, you wretch!" cries I, "and what is it that you've said?"

"Nay," says she, "'tis not what I have said. 'Tis what I have not said. Let me see: the Marchioness of Quorn is bald as a toad when her wig is taken off; her ladyship of Chickenley is twenty years older than she looks, and hath a married daughter. The beautiful Miss Brandysnap drinks whisky-possets on the sly, and got the jumps the other morning. But that is a family affair, as the venerable rake her father had to be carried out of the Bodega every evening for a quarter of a century with nine pints of claret under his shirt. Then good Madam Salamander hath the fiery temper of old Pluto, and almost committed a manslaughter on her maid a week last Tuesday. There is a quantity of other things I've said, but I'll not tarry to retail 'em."

"Don't," I implored her, and took the stopper from my phial of aromatic vinegar. The Honourable Prudence Canticle was getting on my nerves.