“She is an angel of talent, sir.”
“She's a devil of deception.”
“She is a divinity to worship.”
“She's a woman to fight shy of. There is not a woman in London better known,” continued Sir Charles. “She is a fair actress on the boards, and a great actress off them; but I can tell you how to add a new charm to her.”
“Heaven can only do that,” said Vane, hastily.
“Yes, you can. Make her blush. Ask her for the list of your predecessors.”
Vane winced visibly. He quickened his step, as if to get rid of this gadfly.
“I spoke to Mr. Quin,” said he, at last; “and he, who has no prejudice, paid her character the highest compliment.”
“You have paid it the highest it admits,” was the reply. “You have let it deceive you.” Sir Charles continued in a more solemn tone: “Pray be warned. Why is it every man of intellect loves an actress once in his life, and no man of sense ever did it twice?”
This last hit, coming after the carte and tierce we have described, brought an expression of pain to Mr. Vane's face. He said abruptly: “Excuse me, I desire to be alone for half an hour.”