le of superfine ladies, the conversation turned to food, and
the company outdid one another in protestations of delicacy. This
one could only touch a little fruit, and that one was practically
confined to a cup of tea. Lady Dorothy, who had remained silent and
detached, was appealed to as to her opinion. In a sort of loud
cackling--a voice she sometimes surprisingly adopted--she replied,
"Oh, give me a blow-out of tripe and onions!" to the confusion of
the _precieuses_. She had a wholesome respect for food, quite
orthodox and old-fashioned, although I think she ate rather
markedly little. But she liked that little good. She wrote to me
once from Cannes, "This is not an intellectual place, but then the
body rejoices in the cooking, and thanks God for that." She liked
to experiment in foods, and her guests sometimes underwent strange
surprises. One day she persuaded old Lord Wharncliffe, who was a
great friend of hers, to send her a basket of guinea-pig, and she
entertained a very distinguished company on a fricassee of this
unusual game. She refused to say what the dish was until every one
had heartily partaken, and then Mr. George Russell turned suddenly
pale and fled from the room. "Nothing but fancy," remarked the
hostess, composedly. When several years ago there was a proposal
that we should feed upon horse-flesh, and a purveyor of that dainty
opened a shop in Mayfair, Lady Dorothy was one of the first of his
customers. She sallied forth in person, followed by a footman with
a basket, and bought a joint in the presence of a jeering populace.

She had complete courage and absolute tolerance. Sometimes she
pretended to be timid or fanatical, but that was only her fun. Her
toleration and courage would have given her a foremost place among
philanthropists or social reformers, if her tendencies had been
humanitarian. She might have been another Elizabeth Fry, another
Florence Nightingale. But she had no impulse whatever towards
active benevolence, nor any interest in masses of men and women.
And, above all, she was not an actor, but a spectator in life, and
she evaded, often with droll agility, all the efforts which people
made to drag her into propagandas of various kinds. She listened to
what they had to say, and she begged for the particulars of
sp