Life — July 14, 1910 — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE DRAWING-ROOM (A stoppage of a few minutes is supposed to take place) Dreadful bey (on lamp-post): “ow! My rye, BILL! ‘ERE’s A RosEBUD!”” to the indolent motion of her limbs with a glorious grace and yieldingness quite indescribable, She was idling slowly up the Mall € twilight, with a servant at a short distance behind her, who, to while away the time between his ste was employing himself in throwing stones at the cows feeding upon the Common. A gentle- man, with a natural admiration for her splendid person, ad- dressed her. He might have done a more eccentric thing. Without troubling herself to look at him, she turned to her servant and requested him, with a yawn of desperate ennui, to knock that fellow down! John obeyed his orders; and as his mistress resumed her lounge, picked up a new handful of pebbles, and tossing one at the nearest cow, loitered lazily after. Such supreme indolence was irresistible. I gave in—I who never before could summon energy to sigh—I—to whom a declaration was but a synonym for perspiration —I—who had only thought of love as a nervous com- plaint, and of women but to pray for a good deliverance —yes—I knocked under. Albina McLush! Thou wert too exquisitely lazy, Human sensibilities cannot hold out forever. I found her one morning sipping her coffee at twelve, with her eyes wide open. She was just from the bath, and her complexion had a soft, dewy transparency, like the cheek of Venus rising from the sea. It was the hour, Lurly had told me, when she would be at the trouble of thinking. She put away with her dimpled forefinger, as 1 entered, a cluster of rich curls that had fallen over her face, and nodded to me like a water-lily swaying to the wind when its cup is full of rain. —One of John Leech’s Famous Pictures in “ Punch.” “Lady Albina,” said I, in my softest tone, “ How are you?” * Bettina, id she, addressing her maid in a voice as clouded and'rich as the sound of wind on an Zolian, “ how am I to-day?” The conversation fell into short sentences. The dia- logue became a monologue. I entered upon my declaration. With the assistance of Bettina, who supolied her mistress with cologne, I kept her attention alive through the in- cipient circumstances. Symptoms were soon told. I came to the avowal. Her hand lay reposing on the arm of the sofa, half buried in a muslin foulard. I took it up and pressed the cool, soft fingers to my lips—unforbidden. De- licious creature, she was asleep! I never have had courage to renew the subject. Miss. McLush seems to have forgotten it altogether. Upon re- fection, too, I'm convinced she would not survive the ex- citement of the ceremony—unless, indeed, she would sleep between the responses and the prayer. I'am still devoted, however, if there should come a war or an earthquake or if the millennium should commence, as is expected in 18—, or if anything happens that can keep her waking so long, I shall delive laration, abbreviated for me by scholar-friend of mine, which he warrants may be lated in fifteen minutes—without fatigue. Perverted Taste A lady who had been expressing her love for children turned to Lamb and said And how do you like babies, Mr. Lamb?" “B. b— boiled, m n,” was the in- stantancous answer,