“Weally,” said Horner, who usually put on most of his w and r ish airs when in the presence of ladies in evening costume: in the day he sometimes spoke more plainly. “Weally, how clevah you ah! I asshaw you, I didn’t gwess it for neawy a week—ah!”
“I can quite believe that!” said Seraphine, wickedly.
“Did you ever hear any of Praed’s charades?” I asked Min.
“No,” she said. “Do you recollect some?”
“Ah,” put in the vicar, “Praed was a clever fellow; and a true poet, too.”
“Indeed?” said Min. “I have heard his name, but I’ve never seen anything that he wrote. Do you recollect any of his charades, Mr Lorton?” she asked again, turning to me.
“I think I remember one,” I said, repeating those three spirited verses which are well-known, beginning “Come from my First, ay, come!”
“How beautiful the lines are!” said Min; “but it seems a pity that they should be thrown away on a mere charade.”
“That was exactly Praed’s way,” said the vicar. “I remember well, when I was a young man at college, what a stir his name made, and what great things were predicted of him, that he never lived to realise.”
“He died young, did he not?” asked Min.