I take advantage of the interruption to open Mr. Vane's mind to the
reader. First he had been astonished at the freedom of sarcasm these
people indulged in without quarreling; next at the non-respect of sex.
"So sex is not recognized in this community," thought he. Then the
glibness and merit of some of their answers surprised and amused him. He,
like me, had seldom met an imaginative repartee, except in a play or a
book. "Society's" repartees were then, as they are now, the good old tree
in various dresses and veils: _Tu quoque, tu mentiris, vos damnemini;_
but he was sick and dispirited on the whole; such very bright illusions
had been dimmed in these few minutes.
She was brilliant; but her manners, if not masculine, were very daring;
and yet when she spoke to him, a stranger, how sweet and gentle her voice
was! Then it was clear nothing but his ignorance could have placed her at
the summit of her art.
Still he clung to his enthusiasm for her. He drew Pomander aside. "What a
simplicity there is in Mrs. Woffington!" said he; "the rest, male and
female, are all so affected; she is so fresh and natural. They are all
hot-house plants; she is a cowslip with the May dew on it."
"What you take for simplicity is her refined art," replied Sir Charles.
"No!" said Vane, "I never saw a more innocent creature!"
Pomander laughed in his face; this laugh disconcerted him more than
words; he spoke no more--he sat pensive.
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