"O, yes," Mrs. Bungay said, thinking he spoke of a jack-chain very likely.
"I mean a French chef," said the polite guest.
"O, yes, your lordship," again said the lady.
"Does your artist say he's a Frenchman, Mrs. B.?" called out Wagg.
"Well, I'm sure I don't know," answered the publisher's lady.
"Because, if he does, he's a quizzin yer," cried Mr. Wagg; but nobody saw the pun, which disconcerted somewhat the bashful punster. "The dinner is from Grigg's, in St. Paul's churchyard; so is Bacon's," he whispered Pen. "Bungay writes to give half-a-crown a head more than Bacon,—so does Bacon. They would poison each other's ices if they could get near them; and as for the made-dishes—they are poison. This—hum—ha—this Brimborion a la Sévigné is delicious, Mrs. B.," he said, helping himself to a dish which the undertaker handed to him.
"Well, I'm glad you like it," Mrs. Bungay answered, blushing, and not knowing whether the name of the dish was actually that which Wagg gave to it, but dimly conscious that that individual was quizzing her. Accordingly she hated Mr. Wagg with female ardor; and would have deposed him from his command over Mr. Bungay's periodical, but that his name was great in the trade, and his reputation in the land considerable.
By the displacement of persons, Warrington had found himself on the right hand of Mrs. Shandon, who sate in plain black silk and faded ornaments by the side of the florid publisher. The sad smile of the lady moved his rough heart to pity. Nobody seemed to interest himself about her: she sate looking at her husband, who himself seemed rather abashed in the presence of some of the company. Wenham and Wagg both knew him and his circumstances. He had worked with the latter, and was immeasurably his superior in wit, genius, and acquirement; but Wagg's star was brilliant in the world, and poor Shandon was unknown there. He could not speak before the noisy talk of the coarser and more successful man; but drank his wine in silence, and as much of it as the people would give him. He was under surveillance. Bungay had warned the undertaker not to fill the captain's glass too often or too full. It was a melancholy precaution that, and the more melancholy that it was necessary. Mrs. Shandon, too, cast alarmed glances across the table to see that her husband did not exceed.
Abashed by the failure of his first pun, for he was impudent and easily disconcerted, Wagg kept his conversation pretty much to Pen during the rest of dinner, and of course chiefly spoke about their neighbors. "This is one of Bungay's grand field-days," he said. "We are all Bungavians here.—Did you read Popjoy's novel? It was an old magazine story written by poor Buzzard years ago, and forgotten here until Mr. Trotter (that is Trotter with the large shirt collar) fished it out, and bethought him that it was applicable to the late elopement; so Bob wrote a few chapters apropos—Popjoy permitted the use of his name, and I dare say supplied a page here and there—and 'Desperation, or, the Fugitive Duchess' made its appearance. The great fun is to examine Popjoy about his own work, of which he doesn't know a word.—I say, Popjoy, what a capital passage that is in Volume Three—where the cardinal in disguise, after being converted by the Bishop of London, proposes marriage to the duchess's daughter."
"Glad you like it," Popjoy answered; "it's a favorite bit of my own."