And Godolphin turning to his friend, saw indeed on the thin lip of that earnest face a smile so buoyant, so joyous, that it seemed as if the whole character of the man were gone: but while he gazed, the smile vanished, and Radclyffe gravely declined the invitation.
Cora was now on the stage: a transport of applause shook the house.
“How well she acts!” said Radclyffe warmly.
“Yes,” answered Godolphin, as with folded arms he looked quietly on; “but what a lesson in the human heart does good acting teach us! Mark that glancing eye—that heaving breast—that burst of passion—that agonised voice: the spectators are in tears! The woman’s whole soul is in her child! Not a bit of it! She feels no more than the boards we tread on: she is probably thinking of the lively supper we shall have; and when she comes off the stage, she will cry, ‘Did I not act it well?’”
“Nay,” said Radclyffe, “she probably feels while she depicts the feeling.”
“Not she: years ago she told me the whole science of acting was trick; and trick—trick—trick it is, on the stage or off. The noble art of oratory—(noble forsooth!)—is just the same: philosophy, poetry—all, all hypocrisy. ‘Damn the moon!’ said B—— to me, as we once stood gazing on it at Venice; ‘it always gives me the ague: but I have described it well in my poetry, Godolphin—eh?’”
“But—,” began Radclyffe.
“But me no buts,” interrupted Godolphin, with the playful pertinacity which he made so graceful: “you are younger than I am; when you have lived as long, you shall have a right to contradict my system—not before.”
Godolphin joined the supper party. Like Godolphin’s, Fanny’s life was the pursuit of pleasure: she lavished on it, in proportion to her means, the same cost and expense, though she wanted the same taste and refinement. Generous and profuse, like all her tribe—like all persons who win money easily—she was charitable to all and luxurious in herself. The supper was attended by four male guests—Godolphin, Saville, Lord Falconer; and Mr. Windsor.
It was early summer: the curtains were undrawn, the windows were half opened, and the moonlight slept on the little grassplot that surrounded the house. The guests were in high spirits. “Fill me this goblet,” cried Godolphin; “champagne is the boy’s liquor; I will return to it con amore. Fanny, let us pledge each other: stay: a toast!—What shall it be?”