Not of course, my lords and gentlemen, that it was the first he had performed by many.
The plutocrat was dining, too. With whom? inquires Transatlantic Journalist. With his people, of course, in Grosvenor Square. Not at all romantic. Wasn't it, though? Adela and her Pa were going, although Pa never went anywhere since the rheumatism.
Nobody else; just en famille. Something in the air? Does look rather like it, doesn't it, Cousin? A little previous perhaps; and it doesn't do to be too previous, even in modern journalism.
Dressed in the Albany in his tightest evening trousers did this idle, rich young fellow; although the question why he could not have performed that action under the roof of his excellent parents at No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, can only be answered on the plain hypothesis that his uncle and aunts and other collaterals had left him a great deal of money to play with.
White waistcoat, of course; buttons mother o' pearl; tie by Mr. Thomas Ling; pomade by Truefitt for the upper story. Even his man was proud of him. But we grieve to relate that his reception at No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, was not so cordial as it might have been, considering that up to the time of writing the life of this idle, rich young fellow was void of serious blemishes.
