dining-room are seated at dinner a large, well-known, and incongruous
company. The Ghosts are chatting away in the most genial manner
with the living distinguished people, and positively making the
"celebrities" quite "at home."_ DANIEL DERONDA _shows a marked liking
for_ DODO, _whom he has taken to dinner, and is indulging in a light
and airy flirtation with her, which takes a form peculiar to himself_.
_Daniel Deronda_ (_earnestly_). Who has ever pinched into its pilulous
smallness the cobweb of matrimonial duty? Honesty is surely the
broadest basis of joy in life.
_Dodo_ (_a modern Detail in accordion pleating, subject to morbid fits
of irrelevant skirt-dancing_). Oh, Mr. DERONDA, what a silly girl I
am! I can't bear that proverb about "Honesty being the best policy."
It sounds like a sort of life Insurance.
[_Giggles contemporarily._ DORIAN GRAY _having taken_ JULIET
_to dinner, and not getting on with her very well, is staring
with unfeigned horror at_ ROCHESTER, _opposite, who is
bullying_ JANE EYRE _to a pitiable extent. Behind him is a
screen of gilt Spanish leather, wrought with a rather florid
Louis Seize design and encrusted with pearls, moonstones, and
large green emeralds_.
_Dorian_ (_aside, to_ Young Subaltern, _who has come Home. On leave.
For Christmas_). Who _is_ that dreadful man?
_Young Subaltern._ Who? Old ROCHESTER? Oh, he's a Plain Hero. From the
past. He's all right. How well you're looking! Younger than ever, by
Jove! Which is curious. But why that absurd buttonhole?
_Dorian_ (_hurt_). You never like anything I wear. You Anglo-Indians
are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
[_Arranges his fringe in an old Dutch-silver mirror on the
opposite mantelpiece, framed in curiously-carved ivory Cupids,
and studded with precious stones, chiefly opals, sapphires,
and chrysoberyls._
_Ethel Newcome_ (_to_ Secretary). Who are those two pretty American
girls? They seem to be attracting a great deal of attention. (_I_ am
completely forgotten, I notice.) Do their dresses come from Paris?
_Secretary._ No. I think not, dear Miss NEWCOME. From Messrs. HOWELLS
AND JAMES, I fancy.
_Richard Feverel_ (_cheerily, across the table to_ Mr. PICKWICK).
In tolerance of some dithyrambic inebriety--quiverings of
semi-narration--we seem to be entering the circle of a most magnetic
pseudo-polarity. Don't we?
_Mr. Pickwick_ (_puzzled_). Very kind of you to say so, I'm sure. May
I have the pleasure of taking wine with you?
[_Dinner proceeds with animation._ BOOTLES' Baby, Little JIM,
PAUL DOMBEY, _and the_ Heavenly Twins _come in to dessert, and
are more or less troublesome_.
_Sir Lyon_ (_aside, to_ Secretary, _when the ladies have retired_).
I say, you know I am afraid this is going to hang fire. It's nothing
less than a miracle for a social affair to go off well when the people
are not in the same set. Old PICKWICK's been asking for "a wassail
bowl." I haven't got such a thing about me; and I should have thought
'74 champagne would have been good enough, but he says it's like our
humour--_too new_! The children are bothering to know why there isn't
a Christmas-tree.
_Secretary._ Tell them to go to the--Haymarket. The reward will
be--swift. Might I suggest mistletoe? I should be very pleased to go
under it with Madame BOVARY, just to show the others how to----
_Sir Lyon_ (_stiffly_). Much obliged, but I will not give you that
trouble. If _anyone_ goes under the mistletoe with Madame BOVARY it
will be myself. Remember that.
_Secretary._ Oh, certainly! I merely meant----How about
crackers? I could set the thing going by pulling one with Miss OLIVIA.
The old Vicar said just now, in his pointed, Gothic way, something
about times having changed, and----
_Sir Lyon._ Yes, we'll have crackers, but you can leave _me_ to pull
the first one with Miss OLIVIA. It would look better. Perhaps we'd
better let the Ghosts give their entertainment now--eh?
_Secretary._ I'll arrange it at once.