"I confess," said Violet, "I do not like the tricks she plays with language: surely all those uncouth compounds, and those obtrusive vowels which everybody else consents to drop, are useless affectations?"
"Those are the conquests of the New School," said Marmaduke.
"I thought that our great poets had found the language harmonious and flexible enough."
"You see, Mr. St. John," said Rose, laughing, "they are determined to pull your poetess to pieces. Don't hear any more. I will admire her with you, and we shall form the fit audience, though few."
The conversation did not cease here; but we have heard enough. Let us hurry, therefore, to Belgravia, where resides Sir Chetsom Chetsom, who has been forced to run up to town for a few days, and is now seated opposite his brother, his hand upon the claret decanter, listening to a brotherly remonstrance.
"I tell you, Chet, she is une intriguante: underneath all that romance and extravagance, I see a very cool calculation. In the letter you have just read me, I divine her character."
"What is there in that to make you suspicious?"
"Oh! no single passage, but the whole tone. Do but consider for a moment. Here are you, a married man, writing love-letters to an unmarried girl; she does not repulse you—she does not even pretend to be offended—she says nothing about your wife, nothing about the unmistakeable nature of your intentions."
"But I tell you, Tom, the giarl is decidedly fond of me."
"Humph."