“Have you been to see Antony and Cleopatra?” asked Willmott of the stranger.
“Yes,” said the neighbour, “I went last night; many authors have treated the subject, and the version I saw last night was very pretty. I couldn’t get a programme so I didn’t see who——”
“I think my version,” interrupted Willmott, with pride, “is admitted to be the best.”
“Ah! it is your version!” said the stranger. “I beg your pardon, I think you treated the subject very well.”
“Yes,” said Willmott, “it is ungrateful material, but I think I made something fine of it.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said the stranger.
“Do tell us,” Mrs. Baldwin was heard to ask M. Faubourg across the table, “what the young generation are doing in France? Who are the young novelists?”
“There are no young novelists worth mentioning,” answered M. Faubourg.
Miss Tring broke in and said she considered “Le Visage Emerveille,” by the Comtesse de Noailles, to be the most beautiful book of the century, with the exception, perhaps, of the “Tagebuch einer Verlorenen.”
But from the end of the table Blenheim’s utterance was heard preponderating over that of his neighbours. He was making a fine speech on the modern stage, comparing an actor-manager to Napoleon, and commenting on the campaigns of the latter in detail.