Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night; And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball-- Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe-- I considered it only my duty to call, And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her--as ladies are apt to be found, When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual--I found; I won't say--I caught her, Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered--"Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" "So I did," I replied; "the dinner is swallowed, And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more, So, being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door; And now will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the Stuckups', whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" The fair Flora looked up, with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, _mon cher_, I should like above all things to go with you there, But really and truly--I've nothing to wear." "Nothing to wear! Go just as you are; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon----" I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose (That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, "How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" So I ventured again: "Wear your crimson brocade;" (Second turn up of nose)--"That's too dark by a shade." "Your blue silk"--"That's too heavy." "Your pink"--"That's too light." "Wear tulle over satin"--"I can't endure white." "Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch"-- "I haven't a thread of point-lace to match." "Your brown _moire antique_"--"Yes, and look like a Quaker." "The pearl-colored"--"I would, but that plaguy dressmaker Has had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock;" (Here the nose took again the same elevation)-- "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." "Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more _comme it faut_"--"Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,