“He intended to steal a march on us,” said Pomander, dryly; “and, with your help, we steal one on him;” and he smiled maliciously on Mrs. Woffington. “But, madam,” said Mr. Quin, “the moment you did arrive, I kept sacred for you a bit of the fat; for which, I am sure, you must be ready. Pass her plate!” “Not at present, Mr. Quin,” said Mr. Vane, hastily. “She is about to retire and change her traveling-dress.” “Yes, dear; but, you forget, I am a stranger to your friends. Will you not introduce me to them first?” “No, no!” cried Vane, in trepidation. “It is not usual to introduce in the _beau monde.”_ “We always introduce ourselves,” rejoined Mrs. Woffington. She rose slowly, with her eye on Vane. He cast a look of abject entreaty on her; but there was no pity in that curling lip and awful eye. He closed his own eyes and waited for the blow. Sir Charles threw himself back in his chair, and, chuckling, prepared for the explosion. Mrs. Woffington saw him, and cast on him a look of ineffable scorn; and then she held the whole company fluttering a long while. At length: “The Honorable Mrs. Quickly, madam,” said she, indicating Mrs. Clive. This turn took them all by surprise. Pomander bit his lip. “Sir John Brute--” “Falstaff,” cried Quin; “hang it.” “Sir John Brute Falstaff,” resumed Mrs. Woffington. “We call him, for brevity, Brute.” Vane drew a long breath. “Your neighbor is Lord Foppington; a butterfly of some standing, and a little gouty.” “Sir Charles Pomander.” “Oh,” cried Mrs. Vane. “It is the good gentleman who helped us out of the slough, near Huntingdon. Ernest, if it had not been for this gentleman, I should not have had the pleasure of being here now.” And she beamed on the good Pomander. Mr. Vane did not rise and embrace Sir Charles. “All the company thanks the good Sir Charles,” said Cibber, bowing. “I see it in all their faces,” said the good Sir Charles, dryly. Mrs. Woffington continued: “Mr. Soaper, Mr. Snarl; gentlemen who would butter and slice up their own fathers!” “Bless me!” cried Mrs. Vane, faintly. “Critics!” And she dropped, as it were, the word dryly, with a sweet smile, into Mabel's plate. Mrs. Vane was relieved; she had apprehended cannibals. London they had told her was full of curiosities. “But yourself, madam?” “I am the Lady Betty Modish; at your service.” A four-inch grin went round the table. The dramatical old rascal, Cibber, began now to look at it as a bit of genteel comedy; and slipped out his note-book under the table. Pomander cursed her ready wit, which had disappointed him of his catastrophe. Vane wrote on a slip of paper: “Pity and respect the innocent!” and passed it to Mrs. Woffington. He could not have done a more superfluous or injudicious thing. “And now, Ernest,” cried Mabel, “for the news from Willoughby.”