'Superb physiologist!'—said the New Monthly.
'Fine writer!'—said the Edinburg.
'Great man!'—said Blackwood.
'Who can he be?'—said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.
'What can he be?'—said big Miss Bas-Bleu.
'Where can he be?'—said little Miss Bas-Bleu.
But I paid them no manner of attention, and walked into the shop of an artist.
The Duchess of Bless-my-soul was sitting for her portrait. The Marchioness of So-and-so was holding the Duchess's poodle. The Earl of This-and-that was flirting with her salts, and His Royal Highness of Touch-me-not was standing behind her chair. I merely walked towards the artist, and held up my proboscis.
'O beautiful!'—sighed the Duchess of Bless-my-soul.
'O pretty!'—lisped the Marchioness of So-and-so.