I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss, Which, of course, duly followed a meeting like this, And come down to business;--for such the intent Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant, In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime, Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime;-- And give but her words as she coyly looked down, In reply to the questioning glances of Brown: "I am taking the drops, and am using the paste, And the little, white powders that had a sweet taste, Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye, And the depilatory, and also the dye, And I'm charmed with the trial; and now, my dear Brown, I have one other favor,--now, ducky, don't frown,-- Only one, for a chemist and genius like you But a trifle, and one you can easily do. Now listen: tomorrow, you know, is the night Of the birthday _soiree_ of that Pollywog fright; And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear Is _too_ lovely; but"--"But what then, _ma chere_?" Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop, And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. "Well, I want--I want something to fill out the skirt To the proper dimension, without being girt In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop; Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk, With a freedom that none but you masculine folk Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, She's always bound down to the earth by these wires. Are you listening? nonsense! don't stare like a spoon, Idiotic; some light thing, and spacious, and soon-- Something like--well, in fact--something like a balloon!" Here she paused; and here Brown, overcome by surprise, Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes, And the lady departed. But just at the door Something happened,--'tis true, it had happened before In this sanctum of science,--a sibilant sound, Like some element just from its trammels unbound, Or two substances that their affinities found. The night of the anxiously looked-for _soiree_ Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array; With the rattle of wheels, and the tinkle of bells, And the "How do ye dos," and the "Hope you are wells;" And the crash in the passage, and last lingering look You give as you hang your best hat on the hook; The rush of hot air as the door opens wide; And your entry,--that blending of self-possessed pride And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare At the folk, as if wondering how they got there; With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. Meanwhile that safe topic, the heat of the room, Already was losing its freshness and bloom; Young people were yawning, and wondering when The dance would come off, and why didn't it then: When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, Lo, the door swung its hinges with utterance proud! And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine.