“We always introduce ourselves,” rejoined Mrs. Woffington. She rose slowly, with her eye on Vane. He cast a look of abject entreaty on her; but there was no pity in that curling lip and awful eye. He closed his own eyes and waited for the blow. Sir Charles threw himself back in his chair, and, chuckling, prepared for the explosion. Mrs. Woffington saw him, and cast on him a look of ineffable scorn; and then she held the whole company fluttering a long while. At length: “The Honorable Mrs. Quickly, madam,” said she, indicating Mrs. Clive.
This turn took them all by surprise. Pomander bit his lip.
“Sir John Brute—”
“Falstaff,” cried Quin; “hang it.”
“Sir John Brute Falstaff,” resumed Mrs. Woffington. “We call him, for brevity, Brute.”
Vane drew a long breath. “Your neighbor is Lord Foppington; a butterfly of some standing, and a little gouty.”
“Sir Charles Pomander.”
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Vane. “It is the good gentleman who helped us out of the slough, near Huntingdon. Ernest, if it had not been for this gentleman, I should not have had the pleasure of being here now.” And she beamed on the good Pomander.
Mr. Vane did not rise and embrace Sir Charles.
“All the company thanks the good Sir Charles,” said Cibber, bowing.