The Voice of Society

BEHOVES Mortimer Lightwood, therefore, to answer a dinner card from Mr. and Mrs. Veneering requesting the honor, and to signify that Mr. Mortimer Lightwood will be happy to have the other honor. The Veneerings have been, as usual, indefatigably dealing dinner cards to Society, and whoever desires to take a hand had best be quick about it, for it is written in the Books of the Insolvent Fates that Veneering shall make a resounding smash next week. Yes. Having found out the clue to that great mystery how people can contrive to live beyond their means, and having over-jobbed his jobberies as legislator deputed to the Universe by the pure electors of Pocket Breeches, it shall come to pass next week that Veneering will accept the Chiltern Hundreds, that the legal gentleman in Britannia’s confidence will again accept the Pocket Breeches Thousands, and that the Veneerings will retire to Calais, there to live on Mrs. Veneering’s diamonds (in which Mr. Veneering, as a good husband, has from time to time invested considerable sums), and to relate to Neptune and others, how that, before Veneering retired from Parliament, the House of Commons was composed of himself and the six hundred and fifty-seven dearest and oldest friends he had in the world. It shall likewise come to pass, at as nearly as possible the same period, that Society will discover that it always did despise Veneering, and distrust Veneering, and that when it went to Veneering’s to dinner it always had misgivings — though very secretly at the time, it would seem, and in a perfectly private and confidential manner.

The next week’s books of the Insolvent Fates, however, being not yet opened, there is the usual rush to the Veneerings, of the people who go to their house to dine with one another and not with them. There is Lady Tippins. There are Podsnap the Great, and Mrs. Podsnap. There is Twemlow. There are Buffer, Boots, and Brewer. There is the Contractor, who is Providence to five hundred thousand men. There is the Chairman, travelling three thousand miles per week. There is the brilliant genius who turned the shares into that remarkably exact sum of three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, no shillings, and nopence.

To whom, add Mortimer Lightwood, coming in among them with a reassumption of his old languid air, founded on Eugene, and belonging to the days when he told the story of the man from Somewhere.

That fresh fairy, Tippins, all but screams at sight of her false swain. She summons the deserter to her with her fan; but the deserter, predetermined not to come, talks Britain with Podsnap. Podsnap always talks Britain, and talks as if he were a sort of Private Watchman employed, in the British interests, against the rest of the world. “We know what Russia means, sir,” says Podsnap; “we know what France wants: we see what America is up to; but we know what England is. That’s enough for us.”

However, when dinner is served, and Lightwood drops into his old place over against Lady Tippins, she can be fended off no longer. “Long banished Robinson Crusoe,” says the charmer, exchanging salutations, “how did you leave the Island?”

“Thank you,” says Lightwood. “It made no complaint of being in pain anywhere.”

“Say, how did you leave the savages?” asks Lady Tippins.

“They were becoming civilized when I left Juan Fernandez,” says Lightwood. “At least they were eating one another, which looked like it.”

“Tormentor!” returns the dear young creature. “You know what I mean, and you trifle with my impatience. Tell me something, immediately, about the married pair. You were at the wedding.”

“Was I, by-the-by?” Mortimer pretends, at great leisure, to consider. “So I was!”

“How was the bride dressed? In rowing costume?”

Mortimer looks gloomy, and declines to answer.

  By PanEris using Melati.

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