Let us return to the group, whose conversation the new arrivals had interrupted.
"Well, I was mistaken," says the gentleman in the long waistcoat, "but anyone may see that Clare Lee is dying slowly!"
At which affecting observation the young ladies sigh and shake their heads.
"And just think what that man has thrown this divine creature away for," continues the censor morum: "for a common actress!—an ordinary playing girl, tolerably pretty she may be, but vastly overrated—a mere thing of stage paint and pearl powder, strutting through her parts and ranting like an Amazon!"
"I think her quite pretty," says Laura, "but it is too bad."
"Dreadful!"
"Awful!"
"Horrible!"
"Shocking!"
These are some of the comments on Mr. Effingham's conduct, from the elegant little dames.
"He is ashamed to show himself anywhere," continues the gentleman in the long waistcoat, "and only yesterday met me on the street and, in passing, turned away his head, plainly afraid that I would not speak in return had he addressed me!"
At which words the gentlemen are observed to smile—knowing as they do something of Mr. Champ Effingham's personal character and habits.
"He actually was afraid to look at me," says the censor, "and I am told keeps his room all day or passes his time in the society of that Circe, yes, that siren who is only too fond of him, I am afraid—and I predict will make him marry her at last."
