Seated in the Housekeeper’s own Room at the Dook of Surrey’s lovely
Manshun, playfoolly patting his fatted calves, and surrounded by his
admiring cirkle, sat Charles, the ero of my Tale. Charles was the
idle of that large establishment. They simply adored him. It was not
only his manly bewty, tho that mite have made many an Apoller envy
him. It was not only his nolledge of the world, tho in that he was
sooperior to menny a Mimber of Parlyment from the Sister Oil, but it
was his style, his grace, his orty demeaner. The Housekeeper paid him
marked attenshuns. The Ladies Maid supplyed him with Sent for his
ankerchers. The other Footmen looked up to him as their moddel, and
ewen the sollem Butler treated him with respec, and sumtimes with
sumthink else as he liked even better. The leading Gentlemen from
other Doocal establishments charfed him upon his success with the Fare,
ewen among the werry hiest of the Nobillerty, and Charles bore it all
with a good-natured larf that showed off his ivory teeth to perfecshun.
Of course it was all in fun, as they said, and probberly thort, till
on this fatal ewening, the noose spread like thunder, through the
estonished world of Fashun, that Charles had heloped with the welthy,
the middle-aged, but still bewtifool, Marchioness of St. Bendigo.