"But how beautiful she is!" said Trefusis, admiringly. "What a pity
that those exquisite hands should be so dirty! It reminds me" (Trefusis
loved a coarse anecdote) "of her answer to old Madame de Noailles, who
made exactly the same remark to her. 'Do you call my hands dirty?'
cried Lady Mary, holding them up with the most innocent /naivete/. 'Ah,
Madame, /si vous pouviez voir mes pieds!'"

"/Fi donc/," said I, turning away; "but who is that very small, deformed
man behind her,--he with the bright black eye?"

"Know you not?" said Bolingbroke; "tell it not in Gath!--'tis a rising
sun, whom I have already learned to worship,--the young author of the
'Essay on Criticism,' and 'The Rape of the Lock.' Egad, the little poet
seems to eclipse us with the women as much as with the men. Do you mark
how eagerly Lady Mary listens to him, even though the tall gentleman in
black, who in vain endeavours to win her attentions, is thought the
handsomest gallant in London? Ah, Genius is paid by smiles from all
females but Fortune; little, methinks, does that young poet, in his
first intoxication of flattery and fame, guess what a lot of contest and
strife is in store for him. The very breath which a literary man
respires is hot with hatred, and the youthful proselyte enters that
career which seems to him so glittering, even as Dame Pliant's brother
in the 'Alchemist' entered town,--not to be fed with luxury, and diet on
pleasure, but 'to learn to quarrel and live by his wits.'"

The play was now nearly over. With great gravity Lord Bolingbroke
summoned one of the principal actors to his box, and bespoke a play for
the next week; leaning then on my arm, he left the theatre. We hastened
to his home, put on our disguises, and, without any adventure worth
recounting, effected our escape and landed safely at Calais.