And at length you are seated, as well as you're able,
On a folding arm-chair that half threatens to close.
But they offer you tea, made with unboiling water,
A syrupy Souchong at tenpence a pound,
Which a simpering, woebegone, elderly daughter,
With stale bread rancid buttered, is handing around.
And you think you'll be off: as your talk halts and flounders,
For you feel most distinctly, they're not in your line,
And you say to yourself, "Yes, these Johnsons are bounders,"
But before you can go, you have promised to dine!