“Very well, brother,” cried she, “your hand down to the very bottom of your pocket, and your other shoulder up to your ear; but you are not quite wooden enough, and you should walk as if your hip were out of joint. There now, Mrs. Tattle, are not those good eyes? They stare so like his, without seeming to see anything all the while.”
“Excellent! admirable! Mr. Frederick. I must say that you are the best mimic of your age I ever saw, and I’m sure Lady Battersby will think so too. That is Sir Charles to the very life. But with all that, you must know he’s a mighty pleasant, fashionable young man when you come to know him, and has a great deal of sense under all that, and is of a very good family—the Slangs, you know. Sir Charles will come into a fine fortune himself next year, if he can keep clear of gambling, which I hear is his foible, poor young man! Pray go on. I interrupt you, Mr. Frederick.”
“Now, brother,” said Marianne.
“No, Marianne, I can do no more. I’m quite tired, and I will do no more,” said Frederick, stretching himself at full length upon a sofa.
Even in the midst of laughter, and whilst the voice of flattery yet sounded in his ear, Frederick felt sad, displeased with himself, and disgusted with Mrs. Theresa.
“What a deep sigh was there!” said Mrs. Theresa; “what can make you sigh so bitterly? You, who make everybody else laugh. Oh, such another sigh again!”
“Marianne,” cried Frederick, “do you remember the man in the mask?”
“What man in the mask, brother?”
“The man—the actor—the buffoon, that my father told us of, who used to cry behind the mask that made everybody else laugh.”
“Cry! bless me,” said Mrs. Theresa, “mighty odd! very extraordinary! but one can’t be surprised at meeting with extraordinary characters amongst that race of people, actors by profession, you know; for they are brought up from the egg to make their fortune, or at least their bread by their oddities. But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite exhausted; no wonder—what will you have? a glass of cowslip-wine?”