“Admirable!” cried Cecil, “and after all the woman is nothing extraordinary.”
“Chacun a son goût,” said Villars.
“She has no poetry about her,” said the first.
“I never write poetry about anybody,” said the second.
“She is not guilty of intellect,” said the reviler.
“She is guilty of coquetry,” said the admirer.
“She would never understand Milton,” said the poet.
“She would dance divinely,” said the fashionable.
“You are over head and ears in love,” said Davenant, laughing immensely.
“She died anno Domini seventeen hundred!” said Marmaduke, with inestimable gravity; and so we left the gallery.