Part 36 (1/2)
”And on what are your political opinions founded?” asked Mr. Frettlby, absently, without looking at Felix.
”Oh, you see, I've read the Parliamentary reports and Const.i.tutional history, and--and Vivian Grey,” said Felix, who began to feel himself somewhat at sea.
”The last of which is what the author called it, a LUSUS NATURAE,”
observed Chinston. ”Don't erect your political schemes on such bubble foundations as are in that novel, for you won't find a Marquis Carabas out here.”
”Unfortunately, no!” observed Felix, mournfully; ”but we may find a Vivian Grey.”
Every one smothered a smile, the allusion was so patent.
”Well, he didn't succeed in the end,” cried Peterson.
”Of course he didn't,” retorted Felix, disdainfully; ”he made an enemy of a woman, and a man who is such a fool as to do that deserves to fall.”
”You have an excellent opinion of our s.e.x, Mr. Rolleston,” said Madge, with a wicked glance at the wife of that gentleman, who was listening complacently to her husband's aimless chatter.
”No better than they deserve,” replied Rolleston, gallantly.
”But you have never gone in for politics, Mr. Frettlby?”
”Who?--I--no,” said the host, rousing himself out of the brown study into which he had fallen. ”I'm afraid I'm not sufficiently patriotic, and my business did not permit me.”
”And now?”
”Now,” echoed Mr. Frettlby, glancing at his daughter, ”I intend to travel.”
”The jolliest thing out,” said Peterson, eagerly. ”One never gets tired of seeing the queer things that are in the world.”
”I've seen queer enough things in Melbourne in the early days,” said the old colonist, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.
”Oh!” cried Julia, putting her hands up to her ears, ”don't tell me them, for I'm sure they're naughty.”
”We weren't saints then,” said old Valpy, with a senile chuckle.
”Ah, then, we haven't changed much in that respect,” retorted Frettlby, drily.
”You talk of your theatres now,” went on Valpy, with the garrulousness of old age; ”why, you haven't got a dancer like Rosanna.”
Brian started on hearing this name again, and he felt Madge's cold hand touch his.
”And who was Rosanna?” asked Felix, curiously, looking up.
”A dancer and burlesque actress,” replied Valpy, vivaciously, nodding his old head. ”Such a beauty; we were all mad about her--such hair and eyes. You remember her, Frettlby?”
”Yes,” answered the host, in a curiously dry voice.
But before Mr. Valpy had the opportunity to wax more eloquent, Madge rose from the table, and the other ladies followed. The ever polite Felix held the door open for them, and received a bright smile from his wife for, what she considered, his brilliant talk at the dinner table.
Brian sat still, and wondered why Frettlby changed colour on hearing the name--he supposed that the millionaire had been mixed up with the actress, and did not care about being reminded of his early indiscretions--and, after all, who does?