Читать книгу The storm of London: a social rhapsody онлайн

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“Do you see that man leaning against the marble mantelpiece, my lord? That is old Watson telling a funny story to Lord Petersham.”

“The story must be highly flavoured, for Lord Petersham is shaking with laughter.”

“Do not be mistaken, my lord, his lordship never laughs at another man’s story—I know him well—he is bursting now with a joke he will tell old Watson when he has stopped laughing.”

“My dear Dan, we are the rudest nation on earth. We stick lightning conductors on the statues of our great men, and walk on people’s toes, only apologising when we happen to know them personally. The nobodies are insolent, because they wish you to think them somebodies; and the somebodies are arrogant, for they want you well to understand that you are nobodies.”

“The room is emptying, my lord, the sun has withdrawn its rays and the flowers are drooping their tired petals.”

“Let us be off then!” and Lionel laid his hand on Danford’s shoulder. “There is old Lady Pendelton being wheeled across the hall by her footman—unless it is her nephew, Lord Robert. She pompously looks round as she proceeds between the two rows of gazers. She is the epilogue of this comedy—a sort of ‘God Save the King’ unsung! This is all impossible, my dear fellow; this old woman, Mrs Webster, is played out in our new era, and the dowagers of the Pendelton kind have no place, any more in our reformed London.”