“Because,” said Cibber, peevishly, “you all want the true _savoir faire_ nowadays, because there is no _juste milieu,_ young gentlemen. The young dogs of the day are all either unprincipled heathen, like yourself, or Amadisses, like our worthy host.” The old gentleman's face and manners were like those of a patriarch, regretting the general decay of virtue, not the imaginary diminution of a single vice. He concluded with a sigh that, “The true _preux des dames_ went out with the full periwig; stab my vitals!” “A bit of fat, Mr. Cibber?” said Quin, whose jokes were not polished. “Jemmy, thou art a brute,” was the reply. “You refuse, sir?” said Quin, sternly. “No, sir!” said Cibber, with dignity. “I accept.” Pomander's eye was ever on the door. “The old are so unjust to the young,” said he. “You pretend that the Deluge washed away iniquity, and that a rake is a fossil. What,” said he, leaning as it were on every word, “if I bet you a cool hundred that Vane has a petticoat in that room, and that Mrs. Woffington shall unearth her?” The malicious dog thought this was the surest way to effect a dramatic exposure, because if Peggy found Mabel to all appearances concealed, Peggy would scold her, and betray herself. “Pomander!” cried Vane, in great heat; then, checking himself, he said coolly: “but you all know Pomander.” “None of you,” replied that gentleman. “Bring a chair, sir,” said he, authoritatively, to a servant; who, of course, obeyed. Mrs. Clive looked at him, and thought: “There is something in this!” “It is for the lady,” said he, coolly. Then, leaning over the table, he said to Mrs. Woffington, with an impudent affectation of friendly understanding: “I ran her to earth in this house not ten minutes ago. Of course I don't know who she is! But,” smacking his lips, “a rustic Amaryllis, breathing all May-buds and Meadowsweet.” “Have her out, Peggy!” shouted Cibber. “I know the run--there's the covert! Hark, forward! Ha, ha, ha!” Mr. Vane rose, and, with a sternness that brought the old beau up with a run, he said: “Mr. Cibber, age and infirmity are privileged; but for you, Sir Charles--” “Don't be angry,” interposed Mrs. Woffington, whose terror was lest he should quarrel with so practiced a swordsman. “Don't you see it is a jest! and, as might be expected from poor Sir Charles, a very sorry one. “A jest!” said Vane, white with rage. “Let it go no further, or it will be earnest!” Mrs. Woffington placed her hand on his shoulder, and at that touch he instantly yielded, and sat down.