I really wanna live this picture.
It'd be fun to be the guy with the green-checked pants and ample cravat, and turn up my head and give a good, "Hmmm. Is that so?"—and throw in a few good chin strokes, too. Then, after eyeing my beautiful timepiece, I'd realize it's time to go, and bid my friend a hearty adieu.
After all, I got that epic poem to finish, and drawing tips to give Beardsley, and a portrait I promised Oscar Wilde, and—best of all!—teatime with the mistress. (Napoleon's a quarter the lover I am. That ponce.)
So off I'd go to my resplendent horse-drawn coupé, and I'd say to Jackson—my beloved coachman for coming on four years—"Let's stop by the chocolatier before home, Jackson: I've a gift to buy Lady Swinton-Burroughs."
Right. And to think, soon she'll be Lady Schumacher-Swinton-Burroughs. Too good!
Even Oscar's jealous, that dried-up poofter.