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 me welcome, and introduced me to someone she thought I would like to know. She had the art de faire un salon. If anyone was discovered sitting in a corner unnoticed, Lady Wilde was sure to bring up someone to be introduced, and she never failed to speak a few happy words which made the stranger feel at home. She generally prefaced her introductions with some remarks such as "Mr. A., who has written a delightful poem," or "Mrs. B., who is on the staff of the Snapdragon," or "Miss C, whose new novel everyone is talking about." As to her own talk, it was remarkably original, sometimes daring, and always interesting. Her talent for talk was infectious; everyone talked their best. There was tea in the back room, but no one seemed to care about eating or drinking. Some forms of journalism had no attraction for her. "I can't write," I heard her say, "about such things as 'Mrs. Green looked very well in black, and Mrs. Black looked very well in green.'"

A comparison she made on the spur of the moment, "brief as a telegram," seemed to me singularly good.

One afternoon, an elderly gentleman was beginning to monopolise the conversation by descanting on his favourite hobby—the anti-vivisection movement. He droned on and on; we yawned helplessly. Lady Wilde's eagle eye