Alexandra

EDITORIAL NOTE Pleesm ! said my (Diaper’s, not Mrs Cox’s] sloppy slavey one brilliant November morning of last year, as the orangegold clouds of deliciously perfumed mist stole, in spite of the Eighth com- mandment, down my chimney in Fleet Street ; [of course Diaper does not live in a chimney : she has a deevie flat there and the flat has a chimney, two chimneys, in fact, O.C.) myav thister litafir ? Woman ! I replied sternly, whence came it ? My practised eye had already detected the inde- scribable cachet of a treasure trove — bene trovato, sin non veri similitudo ! as the immortal Mantuan bardic anarch hath it — ah ! dear, dear old Dante ! — Dunnom ! — Oyussm ! with a vivid blush through her smuts (Euphemia knows that she cannot hope to deceive me. What is my secret ? A simple one : I always believe the worst : once in a thou- sand times I may be wrong, and it is only the next worst, but no matter.) Without prolonging the agony, I may say that it shortly transpired that Euphemia Bugg — such is her name — has for years been the adored (Pla- tonic if not Aristotelian) mistress of a distinguished littérateur, whom I have been able with difficulty (the maid is modest, as one would expect from the No. 1 belle dame of either of these cicisbeos), with one of the gentlemen whose name is on our title- page. The student of style will be able to make his or her choice. All we care about is that he or she should pay his or her money.