“I confess,” said Peebles, “that I cannot appreciate French poetry. I can read Rousseau with pleasure, and Bossuet; but I cannot admire Corneille and Racine.”
“Everybody writes plays now,” said Faubourg, with a sigh.
“I have never written a play,” said Lord Pantry.
“Nor I,” said Lockton.
“But nearly everyone at this table has,” said Faubourg. “Mrs. Baldwin has written ‘Matilda,’ Mr. Giles has written a tragedy called ‘Queen Swaflod,’ I wrote a play in my youth, my ‘Le Menetrier de Parme’; I’m sure Corporal has written a play. Count Sciarra must have written several; have you ever written a play?” he said, turning to his neighbour, the stranger.
“Yes,” answered the stranger, “I once wrote a play called ‘Hamlet.’”
“You were courageous with such an original before you,” said Faubourg, severely.
“Yes,” said the stranger, “the original was very good, but I think,” he added modestly, “that I improved upon it.”
“Encore un faiseur de paradoxes!” murmured Faubourg to himself in disgust.
In the meantime Willmott was giving Professor Morgan the benefit of his views on Greek art, punctuated with allusions to Tariff Reform and devolution for the benefit of Blenheim.