On a certain evening about this time, poor Dick entertained a few of his “friends” at supper in his rooms, at one of our fashionable hotels.
Among his guests were Captain Reding and Lieutenant Harpe, those two gallant officers of the Loafers’ Guard, who had once affronted Alexander Lyon by obtruding themselves into his opera box, and afterwards insulted Drusilla by following her home.
A lady friend, whose husband, in his profane bachelor days, had been present at this orgie, told me something of what passed there.
When the cloth was removed, and wines, liquors, olives, hookahs, tobacco and cigars were placed upon the table, the “gentlemen” became more than ever at ease.
The conversation, that had wandered over the general subjects of politics, field sports, operas, singers’ throats, dancers’ feet and beauties’ points, now became personal.
“By the way, Hammond,” said Captain Reding, taking the mouth-piece of his hookah from between his lips, and speaking through a cloud of smoke, “I see by the ‘Valley Courier,’ which I found upon your table, that Miss Lyon is really going to marry that prig Alexander. Is it quite true?”
“I believe so, sir,” said Dick, changing color, and helping himself to a deep draught of cognac.
“How the deuce was it that you let the heiress escape you?”
“The heiress, sir? I am not a fortune hunter.”
“Oh, bosh! you know what I mean, well enough. Who the deuce would ever accuse you of being a fortune hunter?”