"All right, Miss DIANNER," sez I. "You 'ave won 'em--the gloves--and
no kid.
Wot size, Miss, and 'ow many buttons?" But she never lowered a lid,
And the red on her cheeks warn't no blush but a reglar indignant
flare-up,
Whilst the look from her proud pair of lamps 'it as 'ard and as
straight as a Krupp.
Brought me sharp to my bearings, I tell yer. "Young mortal," she sez,
"it is plain
An Enjimmyun is not to be found in the purlieus of Chancery Lane.
And that Primrose 'Ill isn't a Latmos. The things you call gloves I
don't wear,
Only buskins. But don't you be rude, or the fate of Actaeon you'll
share."
I wosn't quite fly to her patter, but "mortal" might jest 'ave bin
"cub,"
From the high-perlite way she pernounced it, and plainly DIANNER
meant "snub."
Struck me moony, her manner, did CHARLIE, she hypnertised me with
her looks,
And the next thing I knowed I was padding the 'oof in a region of
spooks.
Spooks, is bogies and ghostesses, CHARLIE, according to latter-day
chat,--
And the place where DIANNER conveyed, me _was_ spooky, and spectral
at that.
"Where _are_ we, Miss, if I _may_ arsk?" I sez, orfully 'umbl for me.
Then she turns 'er two lamps on me sparkling. "Of course we're in
Limbo," sez she.
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