Then the audience used to laugh, and if they did not, lo! the
manager, actor and author of heroic tragedy were exceeding sorrowful.
While sitting attendance on the epilogue Mr. Vane had nothing to distract
him from the congregation but a sanguinary sermon in five heads, so his
eyes roved over the pews, and presently he became aware of a familiar
face watching him closely. The gentleman to whom it belonged finding
himself recognized left his seat, and a minute later Sir Charles Pomander
entered Mr. Vane's box.
This Sir Charles Pomander was a gentleman of vice; pleasure he called it.
Mr. Vane had made his acquaintance two years ago in Shropshire. Sir
Charles, who husbanded everything except his soul, had turned himself out
to grass for a month. His object was, by roast mutton, bread with some
little flour in it, air, water, temperance, chastity and peace, to be
enabled to take a deeper plunge into impurities of food and morals.
A few nights ago, unseen by Mr. Vane, he had observed him in the theater;
an ordinary man would have gone at once and shaken hands with him, but
this was not an ordinary man, this was a diplomatist. First of all, he
said to himself: "What is this man doing here?" Then he soon discovered
this man must be in love with some actress; then it became his business
to know who she was; this, too, soon betrayed itself.
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