“Quite right, Doctor,” said Susanna, giving him a gentle pat of encouragement on the shoulder. “Defend the cloth, always. I was only asking him to stay to lunch, Bob. Cant you persuade him?”
“Do, old fellow,” said Marmaduke. “Come! you must: I havnt had a chat with you for ever so long. I’m really awfully sorry I interrupted you. What on earth did you make Susanna rig herself out like that for?”
“Hold your tongue, Bob. Mr. George has nothing to do with my being in character. This is what came last night in the box: I could not resist trying it on this morning. I am Zobeida, the light of the harem, if you please. I must have your opinion of the rouge song, Doctor. Observe. This is a powder puff: I suppose you never saw such a thing before. I am making up my face for a visit of the Sultan; and I am apologizing to the audience for using cosmetics. The original French is improper; so I will give you the English version, by the celebrated Robinson, the cleverest adapter of the day:
‘Poor odalisques in captive thrall
Must never let their charms pall:
If they get the sack
They ne’er come back;
For the Bosphorus is the boss for all
In this harem, harem, harem, harem, harum scarum place.’
Intellectual, isnt it?”
Susanna, whilst singing, executed a fantastic slow dance, stopping at certain points to clink a pair of little cymbals attached to her ankles, and to look for a moment archly at the clergyman.
“No,” he said, hurt and offended into a sincerity of manner which compelled them to respect him for the first time, “I will not stay; and I am very sorry I came.” And he left the room, his cheeks tingling. Marmaduke followed him to the gate. “Come and look us up soon again, old fellow,” he said.
“Marmaduke,” said the clergyman: “you are travelling as fast as you can along the road to Hell.”
As he hurried away, Marmaduke leaned against the gate and made the villas opposite echo his laughter.
“On my soul, it’s a shame,” said he, when he returned to the house. “Poor old George!”