“Well!” thought I, “odd people these; let us enter a little farther into this savage country.” In accordance with this reflection, I proceeded towards the middle of the room.
“Who’s that?” said Mr. Smith, in a loud whisper, as I passed him.
“‘Pon honour,” answered Ritson, “I don’t know! but he’s a deuced neat looking fellow, quite genteel.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ritson,” said my vanity; “you are not so offensive after all.”
I paused to look at the dancers; a middle-aged, respectable looking gentleman was beside me. Common people, after they have passed forty, grow social. My neighbour hemmed twice, and made preparation for speaking. “I may as well encourage him,” was my reflection; accordingly I turned round, with a most good-natured expression of countenance.
“A fine room this, Sir,” said the man immediately.
“Very,” said I, with a smile, “and extremely well filled.”
“Ah, Sir,” answered my neighbour, “Cheltenham is not as it used to be some fifteen years ago. I have seen as many as one thousand two hundred and fifty persons within these walls;” (certain people are always so d—d particularizing,) “ay, Sir,” pursued my laudator temporis acti, “and half the peerage here into the bargain.”
“Indeed!” quoth I, with an air of surprise suited to the information I received, “but the society is very good still, is it not?”
“Oh, very genteel,” replied the man; “but not so dashing as it used to be.” (Oh! those two horrid words! low enough to suit even the author of”—.”)