The world was awake to the 2nd of May, but Mayfair is not the world, and even the menials of Mayfair lie long abed. As they turned into Hertford Street they startled a robin from the poet's head on a barren fountain, and he fled away with a cameo note.
On the stage of the Gotham gloom reigned. . . . Johnson Miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit and the first row of the orchestra chairs.
A bone not far from his heart, to put him in mind of dilection and love to the woman.
Great hailstones keep dashing against my window and dancing about on the garden walks like things demented. The monkey trees are waving their long arms about with Ophelian gestures, and the chestnuts near the gate groan and sway […]
