CRAZY TALES.
The Duchess of Pomposet was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies, full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being broader than his views.
"Pomposet," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!"
(When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but His Grace thought it infra dig., and they compromised by omitting the vulgar "c.")
"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale mirror, "I have made up my mind."
"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"
"What is more, I have made up yours."
"To make up the mind of an English duke," he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything, Jane."