“Mrs. Bironn, ma’am,” said he, for he had heard the waiter call her by some such name, “if you WILL accept a glass of champagne, ma’am, you’ll do me, I’m sure, great honor: they say it’s very good, and a precious sight cheaper than it is on our side of the way, too—not that I care for money. Mrs. Bironn, ma’am, your health, ma’am.”
The lady smiled very graciously, and drank the wine.
“Har you any relation, ma’am, if I may make so bold; har you anyways connected with the family of our immortal bard?”
“Sir, I beg your pardon.”
“Don’t mention it, ma’am: but BiRONN and BYron are hevidently the same names, only you pronounce in the French way; and I thought you might be related to his lordship: his horigin, ma’am, was of French extraction:” and here Pogson began to repeat,—
“Hare thy heyes like thy mother’s, my fair child,
Hada! sole daughter of my ’ouse and ’art?”
“Oh!” said the lady, laughing, “you speak of LOR Byron?
“Hauthor of ‘Don Juan,’ ‘Child ’Arold,’ and ‘Cain, a Mystery,’” said Pogson:—“I do; and hearing the waiter calling you Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of hasking whether you were connected with his lordship; that’s hall:” and my friend here grew dreadfully red, and began twiddling his long ringlets in his fingers, and examining very eagerly the contents of his plate.
“Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness; my husband was Baron, and I am Baroness.”
“What! ’ave I the honor—I beg your pardon, ma’am—is your ladyship a Baroness, and I not know it? pray excuse me for calling you ma’am.”