“Nay,” cried another voice, “Dr. Goldsmith is contemplating the writing of a history of the attempted reformation of society in the eighteenth century, through the agency of a Greek temple known as the Pantheon on the Oxford road.”
He turned and stood face to face with two lovely laughing girls and a handsome elder lady, who was pretending to look scandalised.
“Ah, my dear Jessamy Bride—and my sweet Little Comedy!” he cried, as the girls caught each a hand of his. He had dropped his hat in the act of making his bow to Mrs. Horneck, the mother of the two girls, Mary and Katherine—the latter the wife of Mr. Bunbury. “Mrs. Horneck, madam, I am your servant—and don't I look your servant, too,” he added, remembering that he was not wearing his usual gala dress.
“You look always the same good friend,” said the lady.
“Nay,” laughed Mrs. Bunbury, “if he were your servant he would take care, for the honour of the house, that he was splendidly dressed; it is not that snuff-coloured suit we should have on him, but something gorgeous. What would you say to a peach-bloom coat, Dr. Goldsmith?”
(His coat of this tint had become a family joke among the Hornecks and Bun-burys.)
“Well, if the bloom remain on the peach it would be well enough in your company, madam,” said Goldsmith, with a face of humorous gravity. “But a peach with the bloom off would be more congenial to the Pantheon after to-night.” He gave a glance in the direction of the group of actresses and their admirers.
Mrs. Horneck looked serious, her two daughters looked demurely down.
“The air is tainted,” said Goldsmith, solemnly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bunbury, with a charming mock demureness. “'T is as you say: the Pantheon will soon become as amusing as Ranelagh.”