‘Valentine told me yesterday,’ said Mr. Vavasour, in a mock peremptory tone, ‘that there would not be a ball.’
‘And Lord Valentine told me yesterday that there would be a ball, and what the ball would be; and what is more, I have fixed on my dress,’ said Mrs. Coningsby.
‘Such a rapid decision proves that much antiquarian research is not necessary,’ said Sidonia. ‘Your period is modern.’
‘Ah!’ said Edith, looking at Sidonia, ‘he always finds me out. Well, Mr. Vavasour, you will not be able to crown yourself with a laurel wreath, for the gentlemen will wear wigs.’
‘Louis Quatorze?’ said her husband. ‘Peel as Louvois.’
‘No, Sir Robert would be content with nothing less than Le Grand Colbert, rue Richelieu, No. 75, grand magasin de nouveautés très-anciennes: prix fixé, avec quelques rabais.’
‘A description of Conservatism,’ said Coningsby.
The secret was soon revealed: every one had a conjecture and a commentary: gentlemen in wigs, and ladies powdered, patched, and sacked. Vavasour pondered somewhat dolefully on the anti-poetic spirit of the age; Coningsby hailed him as the author of Leonidas.
‘And you, I suppose, will figure as one of the “boys” arrayed against the great Sir Robert?’ said Mr. Vavasour, with a countenance of mock veneration for that eminent personage.
‘The “boys” beat him at last,’ said Coningsby; and then, with a rapid precision and a richness of colouring which were peculiar to him, he threw out a sketch which placed the period before them; and they began to tear it to tatters, select the incidents, and apportion the characters.