laced, like all the rest of his clothes,—indeed, the richness of his costume was distressing,—"but I will say, sir, that Mr. Effingham's treatment of that divine creature, Miss Clare Lee, is shameful."
"How?" ask the ladies, agitating their fans and scenting a delicious bit of scandal.
"Why," says the gentleman in the long waistcoat, squaring himself, so to speak, and greatly delighted at the sudden accession to his importance—the general opinion being that he was somewhat insignificant, "why, ladies, he has been running after that little jade, Miss Hallam!"
"Miss Hallam!" cry the ladies, in virtuous ignorance, though nothing was more notorious than the goings-on of our friend Mr. Effingham, "Miss Hallam!"
"Precisely, ladies."
"The actress?"
"Yes."
"A playing girl!" exclaims a lady, of say thirty, and covering her face as she spoke.
"Falling in love with her!"
"Possible?"
"Have n't you heard all about it?"
This home question causes a flutter and a silence.
"I'll tell you, then," continues the gentleman in the long waistcoat, "I'll tell you all about the doings of 'Dion, the thunderbolt of war, and prince of modern wits.' He, the thunderbolt of war?—preposterous! He, the prince of wits?—ludicrous! He may be the king of coxcombs, the coryphæus of dandies—but that is all."
The gentlemen standing around listen to these words with some amusement and more disgust. It is plain that some secret spite actuates the gentleman in the long waistcoat.
"Well, let us hear Mr. Effingham's crimes," says Laura.
