At the round table in the centre, Mrs. Meredith Vyner, Mrs. Langley Turner, Miss Broughton, and Violet are disposed among Marmaduke, Maxwell, Tom Wincot, Captain Heath, and young Lufton; the ladies knitting purses, and engaged on tambour work: the gentlemen making occasional remarks thereon, and rendering bungling assistance in the winding of silk.
To the left, Blanche and Cecil, the latter with his guitar in his hand.
The fire blazes cheerfully. The room is brilliant with light. Mrs. Meredith Vyner is applauding herself secretly at her increasing success with Marmaduke, who she doubts not will soon have lost all his anger towards her. Maxwell looks blacker than ever, but is silent. Violet is recovering from her disappointment, and settling into calm contempt of Cecil. Marmaduke laughs in his sleeve at Mrs. Vyner's attempts, but is too much struck with Violet, not to be glad of anything which seems likely to smooth the path of acquaintance with her. Captain Heath is rather annoyed at having lost his accustomed seat next to Blanche, with whom he best likes to converse. Cecil has completely shaken off his depression, and is wondering he never before discovered what incomparable eyes Blanche has.
"But about these theatricals," said Mrs. Langley Turner. "I am dying to have something settled. You, Mrs. Vyner, are the cleverest of the party, do you suggest some play. What do you say to Othello?"
"Oh!" said Mrs. Broughton, "don't think of tragedy."
"No, no," rejoined Mrs. Vyner; "if the audience must laugh, let it at least be with us."
"By all means," said Vyner, shuffling the cards; "remember, too,
Male si mandata loqueris
Aut dormitabo aut ridebo.
"At the same time," observed Mrs. Vyner; "Mr. Ashley would make a superb Othello."
"I rather think," replied Marmaduke, slightly veiling his eyes with the long lashes; "Iago would suit me better."