The camels are polishing up in the Analytical’s pantry for the dinner of wonderment on the occasion of the Lammles going to pieces, and Mr. Twemlow feels a little queer on the sofa at his lodgings over the stable yard in Duke Street, Saint James’s, in consequence of having taken two advertised pills at about midday, on the faith of the printed representation accompanying the box (price one and a penny halfpenny, government stamp included), that the same “will be found highly salutary as a precautionary measure in connection with the pleasures of the table.” To whom, while sickly with the fancy of an insoluble pill sticking in his gullet, and also with the sensation of a deposit of warm gum languidly wandering within him a little lower down, a servant enters with the announcement that a lady wishes to speak with him.

“A lady!” says Twemlow, pluming his ruffled feathers. “Ask the favour of the lady’s name.”