Of this inoffensive but not brilliant prince (who, by the way, was Chancellor of the University of Cambridge) it is related that once at a levee he noticed a naval friend with a much-tanned face.  “How do, Admiral?  Glad to see you again.  It’s a long time since you have been at a levee.”  “Yes, sir.  Since I last saw your Royal Highness I have been nearly to the North Pole.”  “By G—–­, you look more as if you had been to the South Pole.”  It is but bare justice to this depreciated memory to observe that the Duke of Gloucester scored a point against his kingly cousin when, on hearing that William IV. had consented to the Reform Bill, he ejaculated, “Who’s Silly Billy now?” But this is a digression.

Early in the nineteenth century a famous lady, whose name, for obvious reasons, I forbear to indicate even by an initial, had inherited great wealth under a will which, to put it mildly, occasioned much surprise.  She shared an opera-box with a certain Lady D—–­, who loved the flowing wine-cup not wisely, but too well.  One night Lady D—–­ was visibly intoxicated at the opera, and her friend told her that the partnership in the box must cease, as she could not appear again in company so disgraceful.  “As you please,” said Lady D—–.  “I may have had a glass of wine too much; but at any rate I never forged my father’s signature, and then murdered the butler to prevent his telling.”

Beau Brummell, the Prince of Dandies and the most insolent of men, was once asked by a lady if be would “take a cup of tea.”  “Thank you, ma’am,” he replied, “I never take anything but physic.”  “I beg your pardon,” replied the hostess, “you also take liberties.”

The Duchess of Somerset, born Sheridan, and famous as the Queen of Beauty at the Eglinton Tournament of 1839, was pre-eminent in this agreeable art of swift response.  One day she called at a shop for some article which she had purchased the day before, and which had not been sent home.  The order could not be traced.  The proprietor of the establishment inquired, with great concern, “May I ask who took your Grace’s order?  Was it a young gentleman with fair hair?” “No; it was an elderly nobleman with a bald head.”

The celebrated Lady Clanricarde, daughter of George Canning, was talking during the Franco-German War of 1870 to the French Ambassador, who complained bitterly that England had not intervened on behalf of France.  “But, after all,” he said, “it was only what we might have expected.  We always believed that you were a nation of shopkeepers, and now we know you are.”  “And we,” replied Lady Clanricarde, “always believed that you were a nation of soldiers, and now we know you are not”—­a repartee worthy to rank with Queen Mary’s reply to Lady Lochleven about the sacramental character of marriage, in the third volume of The Abbot.

A young lady, who had just been appointed a Maid of Honour, was telling some friends with whom she was dining that one of the conditions of the office was that she should not keep a diary of what went on at Court.  A cynical man of the world who was present said, “What a tiresome rule!  I think I should keep my diary all the same.”  “Then,” replied the young lady, “I am afraid you would not be a maid of Honour.”