_You're_ a politician,
Cluffe, and read the papers. You remember the bill of fare--don't
you?--at the Lord Mayor's entertainment in London.'
Cluffe, whose mind was full of other matters, nodded his head with a
grunt.
'Well, I'll take my oath,' pursued Puddock, 'you couldn't have made a
better dinner at the Prince of Travendahl's table. Spanish olea, if you
please--ragou royal, cardoons, tendrons, shellfish in marinade, ruffs
and rees, wheat-ears, green morels, fat livers, combs and notts. 'Tis
rather odd, Sir, to us who employ them, to learn that our tailors, while
we're eating the dinners we do--our _tailors_, Sir, are absolutely
gorging themselves with such things--with _our_ money, by Jove!'
'_Yours_, Puddock, not mine,' said Devereux. 'I haven't paid a tailor
these six years. But, hang it, let's get on.'
So, in they walked by the barrack-yard, lighted up now with a splendid
red blaze of torches, and with different emotions, entered the already
crowded ball-room.
Devereux looked round the room, among nodding plumes and flashing
brilliants, and smirking old bucks, and simpering young ones, amidst the
buzz of two or three hundred voices, and the thunder and braying of the
band.
Pages:
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548