"_Does_ Foker ever think?" drawled out Mr. Poyntz. "Foker, here is a
considerable sum of money offered by a fair capitalist at this end of
the table for the present emanations of your valuable and acute
intellect, old boy!"

"What the deuce is that Poyntz a talking about?" Mrs. Calverley asked
of her neighbor. "I hate him. He's a drawlin', sneerin' beast."

"What a droll of a little man is that little Fokare, my lor,"
Mademoiselle Coralie said, in her own language, and with the rich
twang of that sunny Gascony in which her swarthy cheeks and bright
black eyes had got their fire. "What a droll of a man! He does not
look to have twenty years."

"I wish I were of his age," said the venerable Colchicum, with a sigh,
as he inclined his purple face toward a large goblet of claret.

"_C'te Jeunesse. Peuh! je m'en fiche_," said Madame Brack, Coralie's
mamma, taking a great pinch out of Lord Colchicum's delicate gold
snuff-box. "_Je n'aime que les hommes faits, moi. Comme milor Coralie!
n'est ce pas que tu n'aimes que les hommes faits, ma bichette?"

My lord said, with a grin, "You flatter me, Madame Brack."

"_Taisez vous, Maman, vous n'etes qu'une bete_," Coralie cried, with a
shrug of her robust shoulders; upon which, my lord said that _she_ did
not flatter at any rate; and pocketed his snuff-box, not desirous that
Madame Brack's dubious fingers should plunge too frequently into
his Mackabaw.