"Vat sinifie vat dose women do? D'ailleurs les Angloises ont toujours singé les modes." In this, and similar conversation, passed the hour of separation in the drawing-rooms, while at the dinner-table the subject of discussion possessed as little interest as is generally found in society so constituted.
"Baskerville, Boileau, Gascoigne," said Sir William Temple, as he resumed his chair after the departure of the ladies, "will you not come up, and in the short absence we are doomed to suffer from our fair companions, let us find comfort in this poor earthly Nectar?" (Sir William believed his wines to be the best in creation.) "Baskerville, what wine do you take?"
"Claret," was the reply of the latter, accompanied by a look of surprise which seemed to say, "of course."—"Did you ever hear such a question!" he added in an under-tone to Lord Boileau.
"Never—he might as well have asked if one would try Chambertin after Truites à l'Aurore, or Clos de Voguet after Bécasses à la Luculle!" rejoined Lord Baskerville.
"Fools were made for jests to men of sense," whispered Spencer Newcomb, "and I know of no one who affords more amusement than my friend there, Sir William."
"How officious and affairé he was in contriving this party," said Lord Gascoigne.
"And how puzzled, lame, and lost in prosecuting it!" rejoined the other.
"He is a most substantial ass," said Lord Baskerville.
"Tonnerre," asked Sir William at the moment, and affecting to vary the theme, according to the taste of the person, "Do you know which is the favourite for the Derby?"
"Gad, he turns his words as many ways as a lathe," whispered Lord Gascoigne again—"understands all subjects alike, and is as learned as the occult philosopher of Hudibras."