“The Doctor and Toady are lower down.”
“Where is Mrs. Felix Lorraine?”
“At the opposite table, with Ernest Clay.”
“Oh! there is Alhambra, next to Dormer Stanhope. Lord Alhambra, I am quite rejoiced to see you.”
“Ah! Mr. Grey, I am quite rejoiced to see you. How is your father?”
“Extremely well; he is at Paris; I heard from him yesterday. Do you ever see the Weimar Literary Gazette, my Lord?”
“No; why?”
“There is an admirable review of your poem in the last number I have received.”
The young nobleman looked agitated. “I think, by the style,” continued Vivian, “that it is by Goëthe. It is really delightful to see the oldest poet in Europe dilating on the brilliancy of a new star on the poetical horizon.”
This was uttered with a perfectly grave voice, and now the young nobleman blushed. “Who is Gewter?” asked Mr. Boreall, who possessed such a thirst for knowledge that he never allowed an opportunity to escape him of displaying his ignorance.