“When last I heard of her,” said Classon, slowly, as he eyed his glass to the light, “she was at Chicago,—if that be the right prosody of it,—lecturing on 'Woman's Rights.' Nobody knew the subject better than Fanny.”
“I heard she was a very clever woman,” said Davis.
“Very clever,” said Classon; “discursive; not always what the French call 'consequent,' but, certainly, clever, and a sweet poetess.” There was a racy twinkle in that reverend eye as he said the last words, so full of malicious drollery that Davis could not help remarking it; but all Classon gave for explanation was, “This to her health and happiness!” and he drained off a bumper. “And yours, Kit,—what of her?” asked he.
“Dead these many years. Do you remember her?”
“Of course I do. I wrote the article on her first appearance at the Surrey. What a handsome creature she was then! It was I predicted her great success; it was I that saved her from light comedy parts, and told her to play Lady Teazle!”
“I 'll show you her born image to-morrow,—her daughter,” said Davis, with a strange choking sensation that made him cough; “she's taller than her mother,—more style also.”
“Very difficult, that,—very difficult, indeed,” said Classon, gravely. “There was a native elegance about her I never saw equalled; and then her walk, the carriage of the head, the least gesture, had all a certain grace that was fascination.”
“Wait till you see Lizzy,” said Davis, proudly; “you 'll see these all revived.”
“Do you destine her for the boards, Kit?” asked Classon, carelessly.
“For the stage? No, of course not,” replied Davis, rudely.