"Nothing," said Mr. Prescott.
"Then don't," said Mr. Pringle. "It don't answer and it don't pay. I've got a card for a party in Saxe-Coburg Square, and I'll take you if you like to come."
"But I don't like to come. I'm sick of all your parties, with the same grinning and bowing nonsense, the same bosh talked, the same wretched routine from first to last. Who are the people?"
"Now, what a duffer you are!" said Mr. Pringle; "first you declaim in the strongest virtuous indignation against all parties, and then you ask who the people are! Well; they are connexions of mine. Old Townshend, my godfather, who's an old beast, and who never gave me any thing except a tip of half-a-crown once when I was going to school, has married his daughter--deuced pretty girl she is too--to a no-end rich City party--Schröder by name. And Mrs. Schröder is 'at home' on Thursday evening, 'small and early;' and I've got a card, and can take you. There's a dinner-party first, I hear, but I'm not asked to that."
"What a pity!" said Prescott; "your true philosopher only goes to dinners. Balls and receptions are well enough when one is very young; but they soon pall. There is in them an insincere glitter, a spurious charm, which--"
"Yes, thank ye," interrupted Mr. Pringle; "for which see Pelham passim, or the collected works of the late Lord Byron. Much obliged; but I subscribe to Mudie's; and would sooner read the sentiments in the original authors. What I want to know is, whether you'll come?"
"No, then."
"Yes, you will. I know you, you old idiot, and all the reason for your moping,--as though that would advance the cause one bit. Yes, you will. We'll dine at Simpson's; have a quiet weed in my chambers; dress there; and go into the vortex together."