to be seen in Dorothy's company."

Pretty little Mme. Laurette Messimé was quite hanging her head about it all. "I live in harmony with all my neighbours," she simpered. "Ah, yes," flaunted Lady Gay, in that unblushing manner of hers, "that's very easy to do for colourless people." At this Caroline Testout turned quite pale and stuttered, "Well, Dorothy does scream so." "Hush, hush, my children," said the deep voice of the venerable Marshal Niel. Though yellow with extreme old age the old gentleman bore himself proudly and his dress was glossy and clean. "We all have our place in the world. Let carping critics say what they please, whether it is Dorothy in her gay gown or Liberty in her revolutionary wear, our showy American cousins, our well-beloved Scotch relations, or our Persian guests—they are all welcome, all beautiful." "Hear, hear!" murmured the other roses.

MORE MARGOBIOGRAPHY.

Proposals—Carlyle—Bismarck—Disraeli—A New Browning Poem
—Napoleon on Living British Statesmen.

[Readers of the vivacious but too reticent serial now appearing in The Sunday Times may have noticed that the narrative is now and then interrupted by a row of what Lord Randolph Churchill, during one of his conversations with Mrs. Asquith and Jowett, called (to the immense delight of the Master of Balliol) "those damned dots." Mr. Punch has, at fabulous expense, acquired the right to publish certain of the omitted passages, a selection of which is appended.]

Many Admirers.

No sooner was I in my earliest teens and had made up my mind as to the best cigarettes, than proposals began to be a matter of daily occurrence, so that whenever I saw the fifth footman or the third butler stealthily approaching me I knew that he was concealing a billet doux. Sometimes they were very flattering. Here is one, written in the big boyish hand of a Prince of the Blood:—

My beautiful, there is no one like you. They want me to marry the daughter of a royal house, but if you will say "Yes" I will defy them. We will be married by the Archbishop, who marries and buries so beautifully; but I shall never need burying, because those who marry you never die.

Poor boy, I had to send him a negative by the fifteenth groom in the third phaeton, drawn by a pair of dashing chestnuts which another of my unsuccessful adorers had given me. I noticed that when they got back to Grosvenor Square the chestnuts had turned to greys.

The Sage of Chelsea.

Thomas Carlyle loved to have me trotting in and out of his house in Cheyne Row, and we had endless talks on the desirability of silence. "Yon wee Meg," he used to say, for he refused to call me "Margot," declaring it was a Frenchified name—"yon wee Meg is the cleverest girl in Scotland—and the wittiest."

I remember once that Ruskin was there too, and we had a little breeze.

Ruskin (patronisingly). What do you think of the paintings of Turner?

Margot. He bores me.

Ruskin (drawing in a long breath). Bores you?

Margot (with a slow smile). He probably bores you too, only you daren't admit it.

What would have happened I cannot imagine had not dear old Carlyle offered me a draw of his pipe, while remarking laughingly, "She's a wonder, is Meg; she'll lead the world yet."

One day he asked me what I thought of his writing.

Margot. Too jerky and overcharged.

Carlyle (wincing). I must try to improve.