The orchard is in blossom.

Every now and again some of the West End shops are seized with the craze of exhibiting lady commissionaires in fancy costume. After a time many of them disappear (the commissionairesses, not the shops), possibly because they cannot stand the curious and amused glances of passers-by or the impertinent “asides” of messenger boys. Yesterday I saw that another shop—in Regent-street—had started. A pretty girl dressed up in comic opera Hussar’s uniform was trying to look unconcerned.

That night Annie served him grilled halibut and English peas, plus tomatoes, of course, and a salad.

All connoisseurdom knew of the king's displeasure, and the subscriptions to Strange's prints suddenly ceased.