I was almost afraid he thought I was really idiot enough to have taken him seriously; but, a few minutes after, he put his hand on my arm, and shaking his head, exclaimed: ‘Oh, you are a sly little rogue!—what a Holborn beau have you drawn!’ ‘Ay, Miss Burney,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘the Holborn beau is Dr. Johnson’s favourite; and we have all your characters by heart, from Mr. Smith up to Lady Louisa.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith is the man!’ cried he, laughing violently. ‘Harry Fielding never drew so good a character!—such a fine varnish of low politeness!—such a struggle to appear a gentleman! Madam, there is no character better drawn anywhere—in any book, or by any author.’ I almost poked myself under the table. Never did I feel so delicious a confusion since I was born! But he added a great deal more, only I cannot recollect his exact words, and I do not choose to give him mine. ‘Come, come,’ cried Mrs. Thrale, ‘we’ll torment her no more about her book, for I see it really plagues her. I own I thought for awhile it was only affectation, for I’m sure if the book were mine I should wish to hear of nothing else. But we shall teach her in time how proud she ought to be of such a performance.’ ‘Ah, madam,’ cried the Doctor, ‘be in no haste to teach her that; she’ll speak no more to us when she knows her own weight.’... Some time after the Doctor began laughing to himself, and then, suddenly turning to me, he called out, ‘Only think, Polly! Miss has danced with a lord!’ ‘Ah, poor Evelina!’ cried Mrs. Thrale, ‘I see her now in Kensington Gardens. What she must have suffered! Poor girl! what fidgets she must have been in! And I know Mr. Smith, too, very well; I always have him before me at the Hampstead Ball, dressed in a white coat, and a tambour waistcoat, worked in green silk. Poor Mr. Seward! Mr. Johnson made him so mad t’other day! “Why, Seward,” said he, “how smart you are dressed! Why you only want a tambour waistcoat, to look like Mr. Smith!” But I am very fond of Lady Louisa. I think her as well drawn as any character in the book—so fine, so affected, so languishing, and, at the same time, so insolent!... As I have always heard from my father that every individual at Streatham spends the morning alone, I took the first opportunity of absconding to my own room, and amused myself in writing till I tired. About noon, when I went into the library, book-hunting, Mrs. Thrale came to me. We had a very nice confab about various books, and exchanged opinions and imitations of Baretti; she told me many excellent tales of him, and I, in return, related my stories.