“Because, to wit, life itself is a comedy,” said Henrietta, laughing.
“Yes,” replied Effingham, “and a very brilliant one it would be if all the world were Miss Henriettas. I hope, my dear cousin, the compliment is sufficiently broad.”
“Thank you, sir. I know how to take your fine speeches. Don’t think they deceive me.”
“I’m rather a poor hand at compliments,” replied Effingham; “but, really, it is hard to do you the injustice, my fair cousin, of withholding them. Come, no reply, for I see my Cousin Clara is going to say something more flattering than what you are about to utter.”
“Oh, no,” says Clara, slightly blushing; “I was only going to say that Shylock really frightened me.”
“It was very well done; much like Shuter at Castle Garden. How did you like it, Cousin Henrietta? Come, your criticism.”
“Oh, what could you expect from a country girl like me?” and broke off the conversation by announcing the approach of a fox-hunter, who was an admirer.
“How I envy them,” he says to Clara, applying to his nostrils, with a listless air, a delicate kind of snuff, “they are so gay.”
Then after some conversation with Clara preparatory to making her the proffer of his hand, he describes his condition as “out of sorts,” as “rusting.”
“Yes, more than rusting—I take interest in scarcely anything; I am wearied to death—with everything. What is life worth? Here are some hundreds of persons and they all seem delighted with the play, which tires me to death. I take no interest in it. Shylock and Antonio strut and spout without amusing me. I am already weary and everybody else seems to be impatient for the reappearance of the wonders. Why are they so much amused? For my part I am sick of all this and only stay because you stay. The nearest approach to happiness I make is in your presence,” at which, of course, the young lady blushes, and after this near approach he follows it up by declaring “how beautiful she is,” that he really thinks that she could charm away his melancholy if she desired, upon which she asks: