Before entering upon the present narrative, may I take leave to inform a candid public, that though it is all true, there is not a word of truth in it; that though Lovel is alive and prosperous, and you very likely have met him, yet I defy you to point him out; that his wife (for he is Lovel the Widower no more) is not the lady you imagine her to be, when you say (as you will persist in doing), “Oh, that character is intended for Mrs. Thingamy, or was notoriously drawn from Lady So-and-so.” No. You are utterly mistaken. Why, even the advertising-puffers have almost given up that stale stratagem of announcing “REVELATIONS FROM HIGH LIFE.--The _beau monde_ will be startled at recognizing the portraits of some of its brilliant leaders in Miss Wiggins’s forthcoming _Roman de Société_.” Or, “We suspect a certain ducal house will be puzzled to guess how the pitiless author of _May Fair Mysteries_ has become acquainted with (and exposed with a fearless hand) _certain family secrets_ which were thought only to be known to a few of the very highest members of the aristocracy.” No, I say; these silly baits to catch an unsuspecting public shall not be our arts. If you choose to occupy yourself with trying to ascertain if a certain cap fits one amongst ever so many thousand heads, you _may_ possibly pop it on the right one: but the cap-maker will perish before he tells you; unless, of course, he has some private pique to avenge, or malice to wreak, upon some individual who can’t by any possibility hit again;--_then_, indeed, he will come boldly forward and seize upon his victim--(a bishop, say, or a woman without coarse, quarrelsome male relatives, will be best)--and clap on him, or her, such a cap, with such ears, that all the world shall laugh at the poor wretch, shuddering, and blushing beet-root red, and whimpering deserved tears of rage and vexation at being made the common butt of society. Besides, I dine at Lovel’s still; his company and cuisine are amongst the best in London. If they suspected I was taking them off, he and his wife would leave off inviting me. Would any man of a generous disposition lose such a valued friend for a joke, or be so foolish as to show him up in a story? All persons with a decent knowledge of the world will at once banish the thought, as not merely base, but absurd. I am invited to his house one day next week: _vous concevez_ I can’t mention the very day, for then he would find me out--and of course there would be no more cards for his old friend. He would not like appearing, as it must be owned he does in this memoir, as a man of not very strong mind. He believes himself to be a most determined, resolute person. He is quick in speech, wears a fierce beard, speaks with asperity to his servants (who liken him to a--to that before-named sable or ermine contrivance, in which ladies insert their hands in winter), and takes his wife to task so smartly, that I believe she believes he believes he is the master of the house.