“Sue said if I would come to Mister Courtenay’s offis I would see wot this is the picture of,” sez I, givin’ him his own fotograf inskribed, “The Wonderful What is It.”
It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.
In about a minit he up with his foot, wich I dodged just in time. I herd him muttering suthin’ ’bout “suing for scandal.” I think myself I oughter arrest her for ’salt an’ battery, boxing my ears. I wisht he would sue Sue, ’twould serve her right.
I’ll not get to bed fore midnight if I write enny more. I’m yawning now like a dying fish. So, farewell my diry till the next time. I give them cards all back fore dinner-time. There’ll be a row, I expect. I’ve laughed myself almost to fits a thinkin’ of the feller wot I give “The Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so cress fallen. I do believe he cried. They were teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party nex’ week wen I got home to dinner. I don’t believe one of them young gentlemen will come to it; the girls have give ’em all away. I don’t care tuppence. Wot for do they take such libertys with my ears if they want me to be good to ’em.
P.S.—I bet their left ears are burning wuss’n ever mine did!
Artist! (photographic). You’ve rather a florid complexion, sir, but (producing a flour dredger, to the old gentleman’s horror) if you’ll take a seat, we’ll obviate that immediately.
ARTFUL!
Dodge of little Sperks, showing how parties below the middle height, by the use of miniature background furniture, may gain a more imposing stature in the carte de visite.