Babbleton,
and withdrew with me to an obscurer part of the room.

Here we gave way to our laughter for some time, till, at last, getting
weary of the Cheltenham Cleopatra, I reminded Lady Harriett of her
promise to name to me the various personages of the assemblage.

"Eh bien," began Lady Harriett; "d'abord, you observe that very short
person, somewhat more than inclined to enbonpoint?"

"What, that thing like a Chinese tumbler--that peg of old clothes--that
one foot square of mortality, with an aquatic-volucrine face, like a
spoonbill?"

"The very same," said Lady Harriett, laughing; "she is a Lady Gander.
She professes to be a patroness of literature, and holds weekly soirees
in London, for all the newspaper poets. She also falls in love every
year, and then she employs her minstrels to write sonnets: her son has
a most filial tenderness for a jointure of L10,000. a-year, which she
casts away on these feasts and follies; and, in order to obtain it,
declares the good lady to be insane. Half of her friends he has bribed,
or persuaded, to be of his opinion: the other half stoutly maintain her
rationality; and, in fact, she herself is divided in her own opinion as
to the case; for she is in the habit of drinking to a most unsentimental
excess, and when the fit of intoxication is upon her, she confesses to
the charge brought against her--supplicates for mercy and brandy, and
totters to bed with the air of a Magdalene; but when she recovers the
next morning, the whole scene is changed; she is an injured woman, a
persecuted saint, a female Sophocles--declared to be mad only because
she is a miracle. Poor Harry Darlington called upon her in town, the
other day; he found her sitting in a large chair, and surrounded by a
whole host of hangers-on, who were disputing by no means sotto voce,
whether Lady Gander was mad or not? Henry was immediately appealed
to:--'Now, is not this a proof of insanity?' said one.--'Is not this
a mark of compos mentis?' cried another. 'I appeal to you, Mr.
Darlington,' exclaimed all. Meanwhile the object of the conversation
sate in a state of maudlin insensibility, turning her head, first on one
side, and then on the other; and nodding to all the disputants, as if
agreeing with each. But enough of her. Do you observe that lady in--"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed I, starting up, "is that--can that be
Tyrrell?"

"What's the matter with the man?" cried Lady Harriett.

I quickly recovered my prese