“So do I,” replied Beauclerc; but Lady Davenant had turned away, and he now spoke in so low a voice, that only Helen heard him. “So do I detest that quotation, not only for being hackneyed, but for having been these hundred years the comfort both of lean-jawed envy and fat mediocrity.”
He took up one of Helen’s pencils and began to cut it—he looked vexed, and low to her observed, “Lady Davenant did not do me the honour to let me finish my sentence.”
“Then,” said Helen, “if Lady Davenant misunderstood you, why do not you explain?”
“No, no it is not worth while, if she could so mistake me.”
“But any body may be mistaken; do explain.”
“No, no,” said he, very diligently cutting the pencil to pieces; “she is engaged, you see, with somebody—something else.”
“But now she has done listening.”
“No, no, not now; there are too many people, and it’s of no consequence.”
By this time the company were all eagerly talking of every remarkable person they had seen, or that they regretted not having seen. Lady Cecilia now called upon each to name the man among the celebrated of modern days, whom they should most liked to have seen. By acclamation they all named Sir Walter Scott, ‘The Ariosto of the North!’
All but Beauclerc; he did not join the general voice; he said low to Helen with an air of disgust—“How tired I am of hearing him called ‘The Ariosto of the North!’”