“If any man in Bath dares to say that this fellow Long took her away from me he shall eat his words. And as for Mr. Long himself—well, let him look to himself—let him look to himself. He has not yet married Elizabeth Linley!”
He raised his cane as he spoke and struck it at an imaginary foe.
He did not see how it came that the ladies were in a paroxysm of laughter; but had he been thoughtful enough to glance round, he would have been enlightened on this point, for he would have seen just behind him a small man giving a representation of one who is paralysed by fear, his face haggard, his eyes dilated, and his knees trembling.
“I protest, Mr. Garrick, that you will be the death of us yet,” said Mrs. Crewe, when Mathews had stalked off, and the little man was beginning to breathe again—heavily, and with an occasional sigh of relief, though he still kept his eyes fixed upon the disappearing figure.
Mrs. Cholmondeley fanned him daintily.
“Thank Heaven he is gone, and we are all safe!” gasped the actor.
“Had he turned round for a single moment he would have killed you, Mr. Garrick, and all England would be mourning,” said Mrs. Crewe.
“Why, what is this, madam?” said Garrick. “A moment ago and you were accusing me of being the death of you, and now you go still further, and accuse me of running a chance of being killed myself!”
“Were both catastrophes to occur, they would be no more than a fitting overture to the tragedy on the threshold of which we stand at this moment,” said Mrs. Thrale. “Why, the tragedy of Penelope and her suitors is like to be a trifle compared with that of Elizabeth Linley and her admirers.”