“They knew you,—they knew you, Withering,” chirped out the Poet, “and they took good care not to put in an appearance, with the certainty of a 'detainer.'”
“Ah! you here! That decanter of sherry screened you completely from my view,” said Withering, whose sarcasm on his size touched the very sorest of the other's susceptibilities. “And talking of recognizances, how comes it you are here, and a large party at Lord Dunraney's all assembled to meet you?”
The Poet, as not infrequent with him, had forgotten everything of this prior engagement, and was now overwhelmed with his forgetfulness. The ladies, however, pressed eagerly around him with consolation so like caresses, that he was speedily himself again.
“How natural a mistake, after all!” said the lawyer. “The old song says,—
'Tell me where beauty and wit and wine
Are met, and I 'll say where I 'm asked to dine.'
Ah! Tommy, yours is the profession, after all; always sure of your retainer, and never but one brief to sustain—'T. M. versus the Heart of Woman.'”
“One is occasionally nonsuited, however,” said the other, half pettishly. “By the way, how was it you got that verdict for old Barrington t'other day? Was it true that Plowden got hold of your bag by mistake?”
“Not only that, but he made a point for us none of us had discovered.”
“How historical the blunder:—
'The case is classical, as I and you know;
He came from Venus, but made love to Juno.'”