'You don't know many people here?' said Tom Lydyeard, observing his friend's eyes wandering round the house.
'Beyond yourself not a soul,' said Uffington; 'tell me who they are.'
'Gad,' said Tom Lydyeard, 'you have given me a pretty difficult task, though I have scarcely missed a London season since--since you went away. I haven't much acquaintance with the Jews, Turks, and infidels of whom this audience seems to be composed.'
'There seems to be an undue proportion of the tribes scattered about the house,' said Uffington, after another look round, 'and, as you say, of foreigners generally. Who are these people, and how do they get here?'
'Who are they?--diamond merchants, owners of newspapers, riggers of stock, promoters and projectors, which is modern English for swindlers and thieves. How do they get here?--through the money they have made. Look round the grand tier, and you will scarcely see half a dozen English faces, and certainly not two with any high-bred look about them. Don't you remember how different it was in the old time under Lumley's management, when you used to wait regularly every night to see Carlotta and Perrot dance the Truandaise?'
'Don't mention those times!' muttered Uffington, shrinking as though he had been struck. Then, as though to change the conversation, he said: 'There is a pretty woman--very pretty and distinguée-looking too--in the fourth box from the stage; who is she?'
'That,' said Tom Lydyeard, after looking through his glass, 'is Lady Forestfield; she is a daughter of Lord Stortford's, and married Forestfield about two years ago.'
'I recollect Lady Stortford,' said Uffington; 'she was our contemporary, a very sweet woman. Is she alive?'
'No; she died last year,' said Tom Lydyeard. Then added under his breath, 'Thank God!'
Uffington heard the words and looked sharply round, but Tom Lydyeard's eyes were hidden by his glass, and his uplifted hands covered that tell-tale of any emotion--the mouth.