“Yes; and in a quarter of an hour he will be in his place in the House, and storming like a fury.”
“And who is that next to him, the thin young man with the long hair?” asked Esmeralda.
“That is the new poet. He was born last week, will live, say, for six months, and then die.”
Esmeralda opened her eyes.
“That is, he will go out of fashion, and all those young ladies who are clustering round him, and smiling at him so sweetly and sadly, will forget him.”
“I see,” said Esmeralda. “Poor young man! Tell me who that is who has just come in, and—look! all the gentlemen are bowing and the ladies courtesying. Why on earth do they do that? I mean the little fat man, with the broad blue ribbon across his waistcoat.”
Lord Selvaine smiled.
“That is his Serene Highness, the Prince of Seidlitzberg, and we all bow and courtesy because he is the brother of a king.”
“He looks like—like one of the men who serve in the shops,” said Esmeralda, calmly.
“He does,” blandly assented Lord Selvaine. He made her acquainted with the names and positions of several others of the brilliant crowd, describing their characters and peculiarities with a happy word or a significant shrug or movement of his small hands; and presently Lady Wyndover came up with another lady.