“Would you?” cries George, and his cheeks and Theo's simultaneously flushed up with red; I suppose because they both saw Hetty's bright young eyes watching them.
“The elder writers understood but little of the pathetic,” remarked Mr. Spencer, the Temple wit.
“What do you think of Sophocles and Antigone?” calls out Mr. John Lambert.
“Faith, our wits trouble themselves little about him, unless an Oxford gentleman comes to remind us of him! I did not mean to go back farther than Mr. Shakspeare, who, as you will all agree, does not understand the elegant and pathetic as well as the moderns. Has he ever approached Belvidera, or Monimia, or Jane Shore; or can you find in his comic female characters the elegance of Congreve?” and the Templar offered snuff to the right and left.
“I think Mr. Spencer himself must have tried his hand?” asks some one.
“Many gentlemen of leisure have. Mr. Garrick, I own, has had a piece of mine and returned it.”
“And I confess that I have four acts of a play in one of my boxes,” says George.
“I'll be bound to say it's as good as any of 'em,” whispers Harry to his neighbour.
“Is it a tragedy or a comedy?” asks Mrs. Lambert.
“Oh, a tragedy, and two or three dreadful murders at least!” George replies.