Your dress must be--well--daring! You must have a tiny waist And the colours must be splashed about in execrable taste. Your bodice may be decent while you've still the gift of youth, But must lower in proportion as you're longer in the tooth. The colour of your hair and your complexion must appear To vary with the fashionable fancies of the year, And though your wit lack lustre, the tiara must be bright That you've hired out from a jeweller's at ten-and-six a night. And your friends, as they receive you to their heart, Each to each will the opinion impart: "Looks quite odd, I must admit, I don't like her, not a bit, But then you know, my dear, she's smart." Then, as to conversation, let each syllable you speak Be vehemently vapid or else pruriently weak; Tell some tales distinctly risky, if not actually obscene, While artfully pretending that you don't know what they mean. In the intervals of slander you must prate in flippant tone On some Theologic subject that you'd better leave alone; And, though your speech be witless, nay, to some may seem absurd, It matters not if reputations die at every word. And your friends, as they receive you to their heart, Each to each the opinion will impart: "She's ill-natured, I admit, I don't like her, not a bit, But then you know, my dear, she's smart." Your parties must be "tidy," so to bring about these ends Find some lady with a title who likes living on her friends; Hint that you'll supply the money that's essential to the task, If only she will condescend to tell you whom to ask. On your former friends and relatives politely close the door, Though they may have been of service in the days when you were poor, Be each guest of yours a beauty, full of pride, A tiara on her head, a co-respondent by her side. And your friends, as they receive you to their heart, Each to each will the opinion impart: "She's a snob, I quite admit, I don't like her, not a bit, But then you know, my dear, she's smart." * * * * * OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY. We have to announce the arrival in Bloemfontein of Mr. Burdett-Coutts, of London, of whom we have secured a portrait which we present to our readers. [Illustration: THE FRIEND's front page.] CHAPTER XXVI WANTED, A MILLIONAIRE _A number as sparkling as a string of jewels--Joke Portrait Number Two._ A singular thing about THE FRIEND was that the readers could make sure at a glance, each afternoon, what had been the spirits of the editors earlier in the day. The issue of April 13th was positively frisky. We were all in our gayest moods, and the principal page was made to sparkle with most unlooked-for fun and flashes of wit.