|notes on the text|
...room entirely filled with strangers, chiefly female ... I was introduced to everybody ... and one and all had exactly the same name. That is the worst of a lisping hostess.After several more encounters with what might be termed self-appointed Z-list personae, the narrator escapes with a friend and says “Let’s go to a pot-house, where cabbies call, and drink something.”
...A female, who could not have been less than seven feet high, came on, half speed ahead, through the fog of tea-steam, and docked herself on the sofa just like an Inman liner.
“Have you ever considered,” said she, “the enormous moral responsibility that rests in the hands of one who has the gift of literary expression?...”
...amusing article, “On Exhibition”, where he [Kipling] describes his own experiences as a lion at a party with two women talking about him over his head on a sofa. Here he develops that special sort of silly feminine voice that he was to use to good effect in all satirical accounts of progressive or bohemian circles up to his death – “Was he [Mulvaney] quite real? Oh, how lovely! How sweet! How precious!”