Soon after, the Baron stood with an impassioned, romantic lady leaning on his arm, examining a copy of Raphael's Fornarina.
"Ach! I wish I had been the Fornarina," sighed the impassioned, romantic lady.
"Then, my dear Madam," replied the Baron, "I wish I had been Raphael."
And so likewise said to himself a very tall man with fiery red hair, and fancy whiskers, who was waltzing round and round in one spot, and in a most extraordinary waistcoat; thus representing a fiery, floating-light, to warn men of the hidden rocks, on which the breath of vanity drives them shipwreck. At length, his partner, tired of spinning, sank upon a sofa, like a child's top, when it reels and falls.
"You do not like the waltz?" said an elderly French gentleman, remarking the expression of Flemming's countenance.
"O yes; among the figurantes of the Opera. But I confess, it sometimes makes me shudder to see a young rake clasp his arms round the waist of a pure and innocent girl. What would you say, were you to see him sitting on a sofa with his arms round your wife?"
"Mere prejudice of education," replied the French gentleman. "I know that situation. I have read all about it in the Bibliothèque de Romans Choisis!"
And merrily went the dance; and bright eyes and flushed cheeks were not wanting among the dancers;
"And they waxed red, and waxed warm,
And rested, panting, arm in arm,"