"I'm not; but I do consider him handsome—handsomer than any man I know. He is not smooth, and fat, and polished, like most gentlemen who do nothing. He looks like an engine-driver cleaned—and then his great brown moustache and his thick hair—no, I'll tell you what he's like; he is precisely the Ancient Briton you see in bronzes, with the thin face and the matted hair——"
"And the scanty dress. I suppose the ancient Britons, like Scotchmen nowadays, wore an indelicate costume, in order to save cloth."
"I do consider him handsome; but her! And as for her being a great actress, and a genius, and all that, I don't consider her to be a bit better than any of us."
"If that is the case, I can quite understand and approve your depreciation of her."
"I will box your ears."
"Don't. They might tell tales; and you know I'm married."
"Tant pis pour toi."
The Ancient Briton had meanwhile recovered his equanimity; and both he and Miss Brunel had joined in an argument Mr. Melton was setting forth about the deliciousness of being without restraint. The grave manager, under the influence of a little champagne, invariably rose into the realm of abstract propositions; and indeed his three companions, all of them in a merry mood, helped him out with a dozen suggestions and confirmations.
"And worst of all," said Miss Brunel, "I dislike being bound down by time. Why must I go home just now, merely because it is late? I should like at this very moment to go straight out into the country, without any object, and without any prospect of return."
"And why not do so?" cried Count Schönstein. "My brougham can be brought round in a few minutes; let us four get in and drive straight away out of London—anywhere."