read his verses; he was scarcely aware of their excellence.
LORD WORRYMORE.
How should he; how should he? One makes but slight account of one's own. It is a pretty thing enough in its way; but you honour it too much, perhaps. He, he, he! (Chuckling and rubbing his hands.) Don't you think so, Lady Tweedle? Don't you think so, Miss Fussit? Don't you think so, my love?
LADY WORRYMORE (impatiently).
You tread on my flounces, my Lord. Honour such a poem too much? it is impossible! I'll have a gadfly painted on my fan, and worship it.
ALL THE LADIES (Miss Franklandexcepted).
So will I—so will we all.
BLOUNT.
And what more will you do, dear ladies, to honour your divine poet?
LADY WORRYMORE.
And our divine orator, too, Mr. O'Honikin.
LORD WORRYMORE.
Crown their busts with laurels, my Lady Worrymore, with your own fair hands.
