"Oh," he murmured slowly. He
said not a word more; but somehow, everybody felt that Charles was
demolished. I saw that Wrengold, when we went in to dinner, hastily
altered the cards that marked their places. He had evidently put
Charles at first to sit next the poet; he varied that arrangement
now, setting Algernon Coleyard between a railway king and a magazine
editor. I have seldom seen my respected brother-in-law so completely
silenced.
The poet's conduct during dinner was most peculiar. He kept quoting
poetry at inopportune moments.
"Roast lamb or boiled turkey, sir?" said the footman.
"Mary had a little lamb," said the poet. "I shall imitate Mary."
Charles and the Senator thought the remark undignified.
After dinner, however, under the mellowing influence of some
excellent Roederer, Charles began to expand again, and grew lively
and anecdotal. The poet had made us all laugh not a little with
various capital stories of London literary society--at least two of
them, I think, new ones; and Charles was moved by generous emulation
to contribute his own share to the amusement of the company. He was
in excellent cue. He is not often brilliant; but when he chooses, he
has a certain dry vein of caustic humour which is decidedly funny,
though not perhaps strictly without being vulgar.
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