For some days Milburd, Mrs. Orby Frimmely, Cazell, Chilvern, and the Medfords have been working hard at a new piece.
The order of the evening is dinner for a few, then theatricals to amuse the many, then refreshments, then a dance, and finally supper.
The Signor is in great force.
“My dear,” he says to his wife, “I shall do my lit-tel step. I shall valse.”
“Mr. Regniati,” returns Madame, severely, “you will do nothing of the sort.”
This rather damps his ardour; and the fact of being unable to consult his nephew on the best means of obtaining his chance of doing his “lit-tel steps,” still further depresses him.
He is perpetually looking into the theatre-room, and as often begging pardon, and being turned out.
The night arrives. I receive the guests as president, and I take the lady I don't want to in to dinner.
Madame rises at the proper moment; and after an hour, and the arrival of several carriages full, the gong summons us to the theatre.