“And it is vary true,” says madame stiffly—“whosoever the pedant.”
“Well,” says Sheridan, “’twas no other than him that writ ‘Rasselas’; for which work let us hope that God by this time hath damned him—with faint praise.”
He checked himself immediately.
“That were better left unnoticed,” says he, with great soberness; “’tis only the fool that uses the sacred name in flippancy.”
He fell suddenly quiet, and a momentary surprised silence depressed the company. It did not last long. All were shortly in a final bustle of preparation for the ball. The ladies were bowed, the Bœotians melted, from the room. The two gentlemen were left to their wine; the elder’s eyes twinkled back the ruddy glow of the decanters.
“Come, my lord,” says he, “you are staid company, I vow. A toast or two before we leave the table.”
“‘Here’s to the widow of fifty!’” cries Ned, adapting from the great man himself, and raising his glass.
The other laughed.
“I drink her,” he said. “A full bumper to Mrs Sims!”
“’Twas Madame de Genlis I meant.”