On his left, Dalton,
always mysteriously elegant and dangerously witty. Denslow and Jeffrey
Lethal, the critic, completed our circle. The conversation was easy,
animated, personal.
"You are fortunate in having a woman of taste to manage your
entertainments," said Lethal, in answer to a remark of Denslow's,--"but in
bringing these people together she has made a sad blunder."
"And what may that be?" inquired Dalton, mildly.
"Your guests are too well behaved, too fine, and on their guard; there are
no butts, no palpable fools or vulgarians; and, worse, there are many
distinguished, but no one great man,--no social or intellectual sovereign
of the occasion."
Honoria looked inquiringly at Lethal. "Pray, Mr. Lethal, tell me who he
is? I thought there was no such person in America," she added, with a look
of reproachful inquiry at Dalton and myself, as if we should have found
this sovereign and suggested him.
"You are right, my dear queen; Lethal is joking," responded Dalton; "we
are a democracy, and have only a queen of"----
"Water ices," interrupted Lethal; "but, as for the king you seek, as
democracies finally come to that,"----
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Honoria, raising the curtain, "it must be he
that is coming in."
Honoria frowned slightly, rose, and advanced to meet a new-comer, who had
entered unannounced, and was advancing alone.
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