Barnstaple. That one you have just read is enough to make everybody else bring up.
Ansard. I rather plume myself upon it.
Barnstaple. Yes, it is a feather in your cap, and will act as a feather in the throat of your readers.
Ansard. Now I’ll turn over the second volume, and read you another morceau, in which I assume the more playful vein. I have imitated one of our modern writers, who must be correct in her language, as she knows all about heroes and heroines. I must confess that I’ve cribbed a little.
Barnstaple. Let’s hear.
Ansard. “The lovely Angelicanarinella pottered for some time about this fairy chamber, then ‘wrote journal.’ At last, she threw herself down on the floor, pulled out the miniature, gulped when she looked at it, and then cried herself to sleep.”
Barnstaple. Pottered and gulped! What language do you call that?
Ansard. It’s all right, my dear fellow. I understand that it is the refined slang of the modern boudoir, and only known to the initiated.
Barnstaple. They had better keep it entirely to their boudoirs. I should advise you to leave it all out.
Ansard. Well, I thought that one who was so very particular, must have been the standard of perfection herself.