“I see it in all their faces,” said the good Sir Charles, dryly.
Mrs. Woffington continued: “Mr. Soaper, Mr. Snarl; gentlemen who would butter and slice up their own fathers!”
“Bless me!” cried Mrs. Vane, faintly.
“Critics!” And she dropped, as it were, the word dryly, with a sweet smile, into Mabel's plate.
Mrs. Vane was relieved; she had apprehended cannibals. London they had told her was full of curiosities.
“But yourself, madam?”
“I am the Lady Betty Modish; at your service.”
A four-inch grin went round the table. The dramatical old rascal, Cibber, began now to look at it as a bit of genteel comedy; and slipped out his note-book under the table. Pomander cursed her ready wit, which had disappointed him of his catastrophe. Vane wrote on a slip of paper: “Pity and respect the innocent!” and passed it to Mrs. Woffington. He could not have done a more superfluous or injudicious thing.
“And now, Ernest,” cried Mabel, “for the news from Willoughby.”
Vane stopped her in dismay. He felt how many satirical eyes and ears were upon him and his wife. “Pray go and change your dress first, Mabel,” cried he, fully determined that on her return she should not find the present party there.