“What, madam, do you mean to suggest that that old curmudgeon—— Heavens! the fellow is sixty if he is a day—— But I vow ’tis nothing to me—nothing i’ the world, I swear!” cried Mathews, with an extravagant swagger by which he meant to show his complete indifference.
“Of course ’tis nothing to you, sir,” said Mrs. Cholmondeley. “No one ever fancied that it was anything to you.”
“Seriously now, Mrs. Cholmondeley,” said he, striking another attitude, “can you fancy that I ever thought of that sly patriarch as my rival?”
“Indeed, sir, I could never believe that you would be so ungenerous as to allude to a rival in such terms as you have applied to Mr. Long,” said Mrs. Cholmondeley.
“A rival! my rival? Oh no, no!” he cried. “He is an old fool, but no rival to me.”
“Certainly no rival to you, sir,” said Mrs. Thrale.
“I knew that I could depend on you, Mrs. Thrale,” said Mathews warmly; but noticing how the others in the group were smiling significantly, he began to feel that he had not been quite quick enough in the attention which he had given to the lady’s words. It was being forced upon him that he was not quite certain of shining in conversation with these ladies who had a reputation for brilliancy to maintain.
He burst into a loud laugh, with one hand resting on his hip: his cane was in his other; he was pointing it roguishly at Mrs. Thrale.
The ladies instantly became grave; they could not possibly continue smiling while the man was laughing. But he soon became less exuberant in his forced merriment, and it did not seem at all unnatural for the wrinkles of his laughter to assume the design of a full-bodied scowl. He struck his cane violently upon the ground, saying: