She was the rage at the time. People felt disposed to fall down and worship her, and declared that there never was such a singer.
The same remark has been made when other celebrities have been alluded to, but that does not much matter. Patti was in the zenith of her popularity, and possibly she was at her best about this time.
So the two young ladies, Lady Marvlynn, and the Honourable Tufnel Oxmoor seated themselves in the earl’s carriage, which made direct for the grand entrance to Covent Garden.
It is needless to say that the house was crammed—it being a Patti night.
The opera was “La Somnambula,” one of her earliest triumphs—the opera in which Malibran, many years before, had so entranced the town by her matchless vocalisation and marvellous histrionic powers.
Lady Marvlynn, having adjusted her opera-glass to the right focus, began to proceed to take a survey of the leading notabilities in the stalls and boxes. She pointed out to Aveline many distinguished persons, and gave a running commentary on them.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “as I live, there is my old friend, the Marquis of Fincairn. I’ve not seen him for an age, indeed; but he’s looking remarkably well. I wonder who the lady is he has got with him?”
“Don’t you know?” said Oxmoor.
“No. I confess I do not.”
“It’s Totty Pinkstream, who was the reigning belle in Paris some short time since,” observed Oxmoor, in a whisper. “He doats on her—so I’m told.”