police did not interfere
to take the rascals out. Wenham was amusing the party in the box
with extracts from a private letter which he had received from Major
Pendennis, whose absence in the country at the full London season had
been remarked, and of course deplored by his friends.

"The secret is out," said Mr. Wenham, "there's a woman in the case."

"Why, d---- it, Wenham, he's your age," said the gentleman behind the
curtain.

"Pour les ames bien nees, l'amour ne compte pas le nombre des annees,"
said Mr. Wenham, with a gallant air. "For my part, I hope to be a victim
till I die, and to break my heart every year of my life." The meaning of
which sentence was, "My lord, you need not talk; I'm three years younger
than you, and twice as well conserve."

"Wenham, you affect me," said the great man, with one of his usual
oaths. "By ---- you do. I like to see a fellow preserving all the
illusions of youth up to our time of life--and keeping his heart warm
as yours is. Hang it, sir, it's a comfort to meet with such a generous,
candid creature.--Who's that gal in the second row, with blue ribbons,
third from the stage--fine gal. Yes, you and I are sentimentalists. Wagg
I don't think so much cares--it's the stomach rather more than the heart
with you, eh, Wagg, my boy?"

"I like everything that's good," said Mr. Wagg, generously. "Beauty and
Burgundy, Venus and Venison. I don't say that Venus's turtles are to be
despised, because they don't cook them at the London Tavern: but--but
tell us about old Pendennis, Mr. Wenham," he abruptly concluded--for his
joke flagged just then, as he saw that his patron was not listening. In
fact, Steyne's glasses were up, and he was examining some object on the
stage.

"Yes, I've heard that joke about Venus's turtle and the London Tavern
before--you begin to fail, my poor Wagg. If you don't mind I shall be
obliged to have a new Jester," Lord Steyne said, laying down his glass.
"Go on, Wenham, about old Pendennis."

"Dear Wenham,"--he begins, Mr. Wenham read,--"as you have had my
character in your hands for the last three weeks, and no doubt have torn
me to shreds, according to your custom, I think you can afford to
be good-humoured by way of variety, and to do me a service. It is a
delicate matter, entre nous, une affaire de coeur. There is a young
friend of mine who is gone wild about a certain Miss Fotheringay, an
actress at the theatre here, and I must own to you, as handsome a woma