It made a great to-do,
Sub-editors so solemn
Just adding thereunto.
In the London Correspondence
'Twas written up anew,
And then a fog came on dense
And hid me quite from view.
And some said they had heard it
From keepers in the Zoo,
While others who averred it
Had seen that cockatoo.
It lived, my little fable,
I chuckled and I crew
As at my very table
Friends twisted it askew.
It leapt across the Channel,
A bounding kangaroo.
It did not shrink like flannel
But gained in size and hue.
It appeared in French and Spanish
With errors not a few,
In Russian, Greek and Danish,
Inaccurately, too.
And waxing more romantic
With every wind that blew,
It crossed the broad Atlantic
And grew and grew and grew.
At last, like boomerang, it
Sped back across the blue,
And tall and touched with twang, it
Appeared whence first it flew.
An annual affliction,
It tours the wide world through,
And I who bred the fiction
Have come to think it true.
Life's burden it has doubled,
For peace of mind it slew,
My dreams by it are troubled,
My days are filled with rue.
Its horrors yearly thicken,
It sticks to me like glue,
And sad and conscience-stricken
I curse that cockatoo.
"That is what will happen with Clorinda Bell's membership of our club," continued the poet. "She will remain a member long after it has ceased to exist. Once a thing has appeared in print, you cannot destroy it. A published lie is immortal. Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale its infinite variety. It thrives by contradiction. Give me a cup of tea and I will go and interview the Moon-man at once."
The millionaire, hearing tea was on the tray, came in to join them, and Silverdale soon went off to his aunt, Lady Goody-Goody Twoshoes, and got the address of the man in the Moon.
"Lillie, what's this I see in the Moon about Clorinda Bell joining your Club?" asked the millionaire.
"An invention, father."
The millionaire looked disappointed.
"Will all your Old Maids be young?"
"Yes, papa. It is best to catch them young."
"I shall be dining at the Club sometimes," he announced irrelevantly.
"Oh, no, papa. You are not admissible during the sittings."
"Why? You let Lord Silverdale in."
"Yes, but he is not married."
"Oh!" and the millionaire went away with brighter brow.
The Millionaire.
The rest of the afternoon Lillie was busy conducting the Preliminary Examination of a surpassingly beautiful girl who answered to the name of "Princess," and would give no other name for the present, not even to Turple the magnificent.
"You got my letter, I suppose?" asked the Princess.
"Oh, yes," said the President. "I should have written to you."
"I thought it best to come and see you about it at once, as I have suddenly determined to go to Brighton, and I don't know when I may be back. I had not heard of your Club till the other day, when I saw in the Moon that Clorinda Bell was going to join it, and anything she joins must of course be strictly proper, so I haven't troubled to ask the Honorable Miss Primpole's advice—she lives with me, you know. An only orphan cannot be too careful!"
"You need not fear," said Lillie. "Miss Bell is not to be a member. We have refused her."
"Oh, indeed! Well, perhaps it is as well not to bring the scent of the footlights over the Club. It is hard upon Miss Bell, but if you were to admit her, I suppose other actresses would want to come in. There are so many of them that prefer to remain single."
"Are you sure you do?"
"Positive. My experience of lovers has been so harassing and peculiar that I shall never marry, and as my best friends cannot call me a wall-flower, I venture to think you will find me a valuable ally in your noble campaign against the degrading superstition that Old Maids are women who have not found husbands, just as widows are women who have lost them."
"I sincerely hope so," said Lillie enthusiastically. "You express my views very neatly. May I ask what are the peculiar experiences you speak of?"
"Certainly. Some months ago I amused myself by recording the strange episodes of my first loves, and in anticipation of your request I have brought the manuscript."
"Oh, please read it!" said Lillie excitedly.
"Of course I have not given the real names."
"No, I quite understand. Won't you have a chocolate cream before you commence?"
"Thank you. They look lovely. How awfully sweet!"
"Too sweet for you?" inquired Lillie anxiously.
"No, no. I mean they are just nice."
The Princess untied the pretty pink ribbon that enfolded the dainty, scented manuscript, and pausing only to munch an occasional chocolate cream, she read on till the shades of evening fell over the Old Maids' Club and the soft glow of the candles illuminated its dainty complexion.
CHAPTER V.
"THE PRINCESS OF PORTMAN SQUARE."
I am an only child. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and although there was no royal crest on it, yet no princess could be more comfortable in the purple than I was in the ordinary trappings of babyhood. From the cradle upwards I was surrounded with love and luxury. My pet name "Princess" fitted me like a glove. I was the autocrat of the nursery and my power scarce diminished when I rose to the drawing-room. My parents were very obedient and did not even conceal from me that I was beautiful. In short they did their best to spoil me, though I cannot admit that they succeeded. I lost them both before I was sixteen. My poor mother died first and my poor father followed within a week; whether from grief or from a cold caught through standing bareheaded in the churchyard, or from employing the same doctor, I cannot precisely determine.
After the usual period of sorrow, I began to pick up a bit and to go out under the care of my duenna, a faded flower of the aristocracy whose declining years my guardian had soothed by quartering her on me. She was a gentle old spinster, the seventh daughter of a penniless peer, and although she has seen hard times and