“Fidelity,” said Lord Marketharborough, “is a beautiful talent, if I may say so. Unfortunately, however, I am not a man of talent. I am a genius.”
“I,” complained the Lady Amelia Peep, “know nothing of fidelity or infidelity, as I have so far been a martyr to virginity.”
“Fidelity,” said Captain Charity, “is an art. But, surely, ars est celare artem!”
“Fidelity is fiddlesticks,” snapped M. des Beaux-Aces.
“I beg your pardon!” cried Lady Pynte. “My good man, I myself know several women who have gone through incredible ordeals in the Divorce Courts and the Press owing to their fidelity to their lovers. Heavens, allow us to retain some virtue!”
“Fidelity,” said the young gentleman who had spoken only once before, “is an affectation prevalent among musical-comedy actresses and generally directed towards wealthy Jews.”
“Talking of Jews,” said M. des Beaux-Aces, “I hear that all the best Jews are becoming Roman Catholics.”
“And what, sir, has that to do with the point?” thundered the Lord Chancellor.
“Nothing, thank God!” said M. des Beaux-Aces. “I detest points.”
“Amelia,” bitterly said Dame Warp, “I hear you were at Martha Putney’s ball last night. What was it like?”