“I'm in that,” yells Bludyer from the end of the table. “My Lord, I'll join you.”
“Mr. ——, I beg your pardon—I shall be very happy to take wine with you, sir.”
“It is Mr. Bludyer, the celebrated newspaper writer,” whispers Lady Thrum.
“Bludyer, Bludyer? A very clever man, I dare say. He has a very loud voice, and reminds me of Brett. Does your Ladyship remember Brett, who played the 'Fathers' at the Haymarket in 1802?”
“What an old stupid Roundtowers is!” says Slang, archly, nudging Mrs. Walker in the side. “How's Walker, eh?”
“My husband is in the country,” replied Mrs. Walker, hesitatingly.
“Gammon! I know where he is! Law bless you!—don't blush. I've been there myself a dozen times. We were talking about quod, Lady Thrum. Were you ever in college?”
“I was at the Commemoration at Oxford in 1814, when the sovereigns were there, and at Cambridge when Sir George received his degree of Doctor of Music.”
“Laud, Laud, THAT'S not the college WE mean.”
“There is also the college in Gower Street, where my grandson—”