“I say, Dan, can you put a label on that fine piece of statuary talking over there to Tom Hornsby?”
“That, my lord, surely you ought to know—ha! ha! ha! What an ingrate you are! it is Lady Ranelagh. She who reigned over London Society by right of her beauty.”
“By right of position, you might add, dear Mephisto.”
“And finally, my lord, by right of insolence,” interrupted the little buffoon.
“She frequently argued with life like a fishwife,” went on Lionel, “and few know as well as I do what funny questions she put to destiny; yet she never saw her true image in her mental mirror, and Society never recoiled from her; but as you know, Dan, Society never recoils from any of her members: the contract between swindlers and swindled is never broken, and if by any chance some speck of dirt sticks to one of the columns that support the social edifice, Society is always ready to pay the costs of whitewash.”
“Yet, my lord, this Carmen of Mayfair is now caught in the wheels of the inevitable, and she has to face to-day the worst of all judges—nature.”
“Do you see that little Tanagra figure leaning against the door?—there, just in front of you, Danford.”
“You mean Lady Hurlingham, my lord, with her vermilion cheeks framed in meretriciously youthful curls. She is a thorough woman of the world.”
“With her, my dear Danford, a man is quite safe. She did everything from curiosity, which enabled her to reappear unwrinkled and unsullied after her varied experience; she derived all the fun she could extract from life without singeing the smallest feather of her wings.”
“And still, my lord, one could hardly dare to whisper an indelicate word before that Greuzelike visage.”