LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
The Look-out, Sheepsdoor, Kent.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
Ascot has been too much for me! What with the excitement of racing all day, and bézique half the night—(another sign of the times; women no longer "play for love," but "love to play!")—to say nothing of the constant strain on one's nerves as to what the weather was going to do to one's gowns, I have had a severe attack of overwork, with complicating symptoms of my old enemy, idleness!—so that, on my return to town, my Doctor—(he's a dear man, and prescribes just what I suggest)—insisted that I should at once run down to the Seaside to recuperate. Hence my retirement to the little fishing village of Sheepsdoor in Kent, "far from the gadding crowd;" a most delightfully rural and little-known resort, where we all go about in brown canvas-shoes—(russia-leather undreamt of!)—and wear out all our old things, utterly regardless of whether we look "en suite" or not. The only precaution I take is to carry in my pocket a thick veil, which I pop on if I see anybody with evidences of "style" about them coming my way; fortunately, this has only happened once, when I met a certain well-known "Merry Duchess" and her charming little daughter, who both failed to penetrate my disguise!
I am sorry that my selected horse for the Windsor June Handicap did not run—though the word of command was given, "Macready!"—he was not told to be "present!"—being presumably short of a gallop or two, and therefore lacking "fire!" This little series of jokes is proudly dedicated to the Military, and Civilians are "warned off!"—which is another turf expression. The much-needed rain has come at last, and the Heath should be in fine condition, which was more than its namesake at Ascot was, and all for want of a little attention—I am told that the far end was all in lumps, which caused the "Lover" to come down in his race—though that was hardly a surprise, as we know that "the course of true love never did run smooth!"
Now—dear Mr. Punch, if you want a few hours' fresh air, command the special train, which I am told, is kept in readiness for you at every London Terminus, to transport you—(not for your country's good, but your own)—to Sheepsdoor, Kent, where you shall receive a hearty welcome—Lord ARTHUR is not with me, but my French maid will chaperon us—if necessary.
Yours devotedly,
LADY GAY.