“Nay, sir,” said Mabel; “I think I know the lady, and it would be hardly proper of me—”
“Oh, madam!” said Triplet, solemnly; “strictly correct, madam!” And he spread his hand out over his bosom. “Strictly!—'Blunderbuss' (my poetical name, madam) never stooped to the taste of the town.
'Bright being, thou—'”
“But you must have another glass of wine first, and a slice of the haunch.”
“With alacrity, madam.” He laid in a fresh stock of provisions.
Strange it was to see them side by side! he, a Don Quixote, with cordage instead of lines in his mahogany face, and clothes hanging upon him; she, smooth, duck-like, delicious, and bright as an opening rose fresh with dew!
She watched him kindly, archly and demurely; and still plied him, countrywise, with every mortal thing on the table.
But the poet was not a boa-constrictor, and even a boa-constrictor has an end. Hunger satisfied, his next strongest feeling, simple vanity, remained to be contented. As the last morsel went in out came:
“'Bright being, thou whose ra—'”
“No! no!” said she, who fancied herself (and not without reason) the bright being. “Mr. Vane intended them for a surprise.”