The morning after the fire, a little bevy of these fashionable
butterflies were collected in this way at one corner of Miss Dundas's
Hercules table, when, during a moment's pause, "I hope, Miss
Beaufort," cried the Honorable Mr. Lascelles, "I hope you don't intend
to consume the brightness of your eyes over this stupid language?"
"What language, Mr. Lascelles?" inquired she; "I have this moment
entered the room, and I don't know what you are talking about."
"Good Lud! that is very true," cried he; "I mean a shocking jargon,
which a shocking penseroso man teaches to these ladies. We want to
persuade Miss Euphemia that it spoils her mouth."
"You are always misconceiving me, Mr. Lascelles," interrupted Miss
Dundus, impatiently; "I did not advance one word against the
language; I merely remonstrated with Phemy against her preposterous
attentions to the man we hire to teach it."
"That was what I meant, madam," resumed he, with a low bow.
"You meant what, sir?" demanded the little beauty, contemptuously;
"but I need not ask. You are like a bad mirror, which from radical
defect always gives false reflections."
"Very good, faith, Miss Euphemia! I declare, sterling wit! It would
honor Sheridan, or your sister."
"Mr. Lascelles," cried Euphemia, more vexed than before, "let me tell
you such impertinence is very unbecoming a gentleman.
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