At length the meal was over. The onions had been discussed—a portion of the feast had been reserved for Angelo—another portion allotted to Jane—candles were introduced—Bromley was allowed to light a cigar, and to mix a glass of whisky and water—even Mrs Magens sipped a glass of toddy, and the room was soon as redolent as a tap.
“Now, Mr Bromley, I daresay, when in that brilliant world which your position throws open to you—in that world of beauties and nobles, you often long for the repose of an evening like this, passed equably in gentle converse, and with a frugal but wholesome meal to which fatigue has lent an appetite and friendship a relish.”
“Very true, Mrs Magens. And your society is especially delightful. Angelo, poor man, is deprived of it. He is very busy.”
“Very much so. The Fates are propitious.”
“I hope he is making a pot of money.”
“Fie, what a word! Heaven ever befriends the just.”
“Money is wanted at present, Mrs Magens. In these days, a man with a good income is not a rich man.”
“Indeed, it is true—too true. The extravagance of the age is hawful.”
Sometimes Mrs Magens was off her guard, and as uncertain about her aspirates as a beginner in the Greek tongue.
“It is indeed,” answered Bromley, “awful——”