Part 7 (1/2)
”Give me a pen and ink; I will write you one immediately.”
”Ridiculous!”
”There! now you have made me blot Faustus.”
At this moment the room-door suddenly opened, and as suddenly shut.
”Who was that?”
”Mephistopheles, or Mrs. Felix Lorraine; one or the other, perhaps both.”
”What!”
”What do you think of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, Miss Manvers?”
”Oh! I think her a very amusing woman, a very clever woman a very--but--”
”But what?”
”But I cannot exactly make her out.”
”Nor I; she is a dark riddle; and, although I am a very Oedipus, I confess I have not yet unravelled it. Come, there is Was.h.i.+ngton Irving's autograph for you; read it; is it not quite in character? Shall I write any more? One of Sir Walter's, or Mr. Southey's, or Mr. Milman's or Mr.
Disraeli's? or shall I sprawl a Byron?”
”I really cannot sanction such unprincipled conduct. You may make me one of Sir Walter's, however.”
”Poor Was.h.i.+ngton!” said Vivian, writing. ”I knew him well. He always slept at dinner. One day, as he was dining at: Mr. Hallam's, they took him, when asleep, to Lady Jersey's: and, to see the Sieur Geoffrey, they say, when he opened his eyes in the illumined saloons, was really quite admirable! quite an Arabian tale!”
”How delightful! I should have so liked to have seen him! He seems quite forgotten now in England. How came we to talk of him?”
”Forgotten! Oh! he spoilt his elegant talents in writing German and Italian twaddle with all the rawness of a Yankee. He ought never to have left America, at least in literature; there was an uncontested and glorious field for him. He should have been managing director of the Hudson Bay Company, and lived all his life among the beavers.”
”I think there is nothing more pleasant than talking over the season, in the country, in August.”
”Nothing more agreeable. It was dull though, last season, very dull; I think the game cannot be kept going another year. If it were not for the General Election, we really must have a war for variety's sake. Peace gets quite a bore. Everybody you dine with has a good cook, and gives you a dozen different wines, all perfect. We cannot bear this any longer; all the lights and shadows of life are lost. The only good thing I heard this year was an ancient gentlewoman going up to Gunter and asking him for 'the receipt for that white stuff,' pointing to his Roman punch. I, who am a great man for receipts, gave it her immediately: 'One hod of mortar to one bottle of Noyau.'”
”And did she thank you?”
”Thank me! ay, truly; and pushed a card into my hand, so thick and sharp that it cut through my glove. I wore my arm in a sling for a month afterwards.”
”And what was the card?”
”Oh, you need not look so arch. The old lady was not even a faithless duenna. It was an invitation to an a.s.sembly, or something of the kind, at a place, somewhere, as Theodore Hook or Mr. Croker would say, 'between Mesopotamia and Russell Square.'”
”Pray, Mr. Grey, is it true that all the houses in Russell Square are tenantless?”
”Quite true; the Marquess of Tavistock has given up the county in consequence. A perfect shame, is it not? Let us write it up.”
”An admirable plan! but we will take the houses first, at a pepper-corn rent.”