Where shall I find myself

Tonight, waking from the hangover –

The riverbank lined with weeping willows,

The moon sinking, the dawn rising on a breeze.

Year after year, I will be far,

Far away from you.

All the beautiful scenes are unfolding,

But to no avail:

Oh, to whom can I speak

Oh this ever-enchanting landscape?

She did not come among us on the occasion of this banquet, possibly because we had no tables there to turn in preparation for her presence; but, had she done so, she could not have been more eloquent of things of the other world than was Mrs. Talboys.  I have said that Mrs. Talboys’ eye never glanced more brightly after a glass of Champagne, but I am inclined to think that on this occasion it may have done so.  O’Brien enacted Ganymede, and was, perhaps, more liberal than other latter-day Ganymedes, to whose services Mrs. Talboys had been accustomed.  Let it not, however, be suspected by any one that she exceeded the limits of a discreet joyousness.  By no means!  The generous wine penetrated, perhaps, to some inner cells of her heart, and brought forth thoughts in sparkling words, which otherwise might have remained concealed; but there was nothing in what she thought or spoke calculated to give umbrage either to an anchorite or to a vestal.  A word or two she said or sung about the flowing bowl, and once she called for ; but beyond this her converse was chiefly of the rights of man and the weakness of women; of the iron ages that were past, and of the golden time that was to come.

I landed at Cadiz, and was there joined by an old family friend, one of the very best fellows that ever lived.  He was to accompany me up as far as Seville; and, as he had lived for a year or two at Xeres, was supposed to be more Spanish almost than a Spaniard.  His name was Johnson, and he was in the wine trade; and whether for travelling or whether for staying at home—whether for paying you a visit in your own house, or whether for entertaining you in his—there never was (and I am prepared to maintain there never will be) a stauncher friend, choicer companion, or a safer guide than Thomas Johnson.  Words cannot produce a eulogium sufficient for his merits.  But, as I have since learned, he was not quite so Spanish as I had imagined.  Three years among the bodegas of Xeres had taught him, no doubt, to appreciate the exact twang of a good, dry sherry; but not, as I now conceive, the exactest flavour of the true Spanish character.  I was very lucky, however, in meeting such a friend, and now reckon him as one of the staunchest allies of the house of Pomfret, Daguilar, and Pomfret.

“And Patsey,” said she, “ride for your life; and Patsey, whatever you do, don’t come back without Mr. Green’s pumps—his dancing-shoes you know.”

And in about two hours the pumps did arrive; and I don’t think I ever spent a pleasanter evening or got more satisfaction out of a pair of shoes.  They had not been two minutes on my feet before Larry was carrying a tray of Negus across the room in those which I had worn at dinner.

“The Dillon girls are going to stay here,” said Fanny as I wished her good night at two o’clock.  “And we’ll have dancing every evening as long as you remain.”

Her eyes actually seemed to be twinkling at him over the rim of her glass. What was she drinking? Naturally, Campari and lime.

One of these Americans, Miss Gwendolyn Bracegirdle, who had never had more than an ounce of sweet sherry at a time on the veranda of her huge pink-stuccoed house in Sarasota, Florida, was standing with a friend in a shadowy corner of the terrace getting sloshed.

“Oh honey, not another! This here’s my second – what do they call it?”

“Gin.” Her companion laughed.

“Gin!” She giggled. “I definitely couldn’t.” But she held her glass in a way that said she definitely could.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, come on, Mabel,’ Janet said.

Miss Warren’s mood changed. She straightened herself and barred the way. ‘You say I’m drunk. I am drunk. But I’m going to be drunker.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘You are going to have one more drink with me or I shan’t let you on the platform.’

Janet Pardoe gave way. ‘One. Only one, mind.’ She guided Mabel Warren across a vast black shining hall into a room where a few tired men and women were snatching cups of coffee, ‘Another gin,’ said Miss Warren, and Janet ordered it.

The two magnificent dogs sat squatted on their haunches, with their great heads over the table, watching the progress of the meal, with the profoundest attention, but apparently expecting no share in it.  The roast meat was removed, the admiral’s plate was changed, and Magdalen took the silver covers off the two made-dishes on either side of the table.  As she handed the first of the savory dishes to her master, the dogs suddenly exhibited a breathless personal interest in the proceedings.  Brutus gluttonously watered at the mouth; and the tongue of Cassius, protruding in unutterable expectation, smoked again between his enormous jaws.

The admiral helped himself liberally from the dish; sent Magdalen to the side-table to get him some bread; and, when he thought her eye was off him, furtively tumbled the whole contents of his plate into Brutus’s mouth.  Cassius whined faintly as his fortunate comrade swallowed the savory mess at a gulp.  “Hush! you fool,” whispered the admiral.  “Your turn next!”

Magdalen presented the second dish.  Once more the old gentleman helped himself largely – once more he sent her away to the side-table, ­once more he tumbled the entire contents of the plate down the dog’s throat, selecting Cassius this time, as became a considerate master and an impartial man.  When the next course followed – consisting of a plain pudding and an unwholesome “cream” – Magdalen’s suspicion of the function of the dogs at the dinner-table was confirmed.  While the master took the simple pudding, the dogs swallowed the elaborate cream.  The admiral was plainly afraid of offending his cook on the one hand, and of offending his digestion on the other – and Brutus and Cassius were the two trained accomplices who regularly helped him every day off the horns of his dilemma.  “Very good! very good!” said the old gentleman, with the most transparent duplicity.  “Tell the cook, my dear, a capital cream!”