Does Get to the Household Cavalry at Last

Porphyria Poppoea was perhaps a trifle sore at the rudeness of the Scotsman. A sensitive maiden – and she was that, God Knows! – expects more consideration than she got. He had no savoir faire, this James, this L., this Dickson; he was restless, he fidgeted, he said nothing wise, or witty, or even graceful; and he withdrew finally with abruptness. He had had much the worst of the encounter to tell the truth; she had been fully equal to the situation. She had taken his point, she had pressed him closely, she had pumped him dry; finally she had forced him to contribute all his present havings – the savings of weeks, or so he swore – to her pet charity (The Seamen's Mission, or some such name 'twas; I forget; this was in Stockholm twenty years ago, and more). What a Portia she would have made! I'm sorry for the man that asks a pound of flesh where she is! Yet, despite her victory, she was perhaps a trifle sore. “Perhaps!” screams the girl Rénée, looking over my shoulder. “Don't you know if she was sore or not?” Silence is golden; I turn round; she turns round; she has now the opportunity to argue the point from analogy – Mem: see Butler's Analogy – but she's not arguing; she's gone to the drug store, and I can continue peacefully to record, in my own charming way, with just the limitations I desire – oh not The Life and Adventures of Sir Roger Bloxam! But I think that I shall go to sleep for awhile, and try (once more) to get to the point in a new chapter. But I'll keep my promise, Cynara, in my fashion. Sore or not, she was following Sir Roger Bloxam with modesty and decorum through the streets, a few nights later, when Sir Roger was accosted by a Mysterious Stranger – ha! ha! we come to it at last – who was dressed in the gorgeous uniform of the (now!) Household Cavalry.

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