"He should mollify them by saying that his verses were written at 'an early age,'" laughed Churchill.
"That wouldn't do for the Scourge; they would say the verses were too bad even to have been written by a child in arms," said Mr. Dunster.
"How very nice! What an old dear you are, Dunster!" said a gentleman sitting in a corner of the fireplace exactly opposite Barbara, with his legs stretched out on a stool, and his body reclining on an easy-chair. This was Mr. Lacy, an artist, who, as it was, made a very good income, but who might have taken the highest rank had his perseverance been on a par with his talent; a sleepy, dreamy man, with an intense appreciation of and regard for himself.
"What do you think of all this, Mrs. Churchill?" asked Bloss; "they are any thing but compassionate in their remarks."
"They may be or not," said Barbara, wearily. "It is all Greek to me: while these gentlemen talk what I believe is called 'shop,' I am utterly unable to follow the conversation."
Frank looked uneasily across at his wife, but said nothing.
"What shall we talk about, Mrs. Churchill?" said Mr. Dunster, with an evil twinkle of his blue eyes. "Shall it be the last ball in the Belgravia, or the new jupe; how Mario sang in the Prophète, or whether bonnets will be worn on or off the head?"
Churchill frowned at this remark, but his brow cleared as Barbara said with curling lip:
"You need not go so far for illustrations of what you don't understand, Mr. Dunster. Let us discuss tolerance, domestic enjoyments, or the pleasure of being liked by any one,--all of which axe, I am sure, equally strange to you."
Mr. Dunster winced, and the fire faded out of his blue eyes: he did not understand being bearded. Frank Churchill, though astonished at seeing his wife defiant, was by no means displeased. Old Mr. Lacy, fearing a storm, which would have ruffled him sadly, struck in at once: