Trying to look as if he knew anything about it, Fascination replied, “Yes, tell him.”
“We were discussing then,” said Mrs. Lammle, “if you must know, Alfred, whether Mr. Fledgeby was in his usual flow of spirits.”
“Why, that is the very point, Sophronia, that Georgiana and I were discussing as to herself! What did Fledgeby say?”
“Oh, a likely thing, sir, that I am going to tell you everything, and be told nothing! What did Georgiana say?”
“Georgiana said she was doing her usual justice to herself today, and I said she was not.”
“Precisely,” exclaimed Mrs. Lammle, “what I said to Mr. Fledgeby.” Still, it wouldn’t do. They would not look at one another. No, not even when the sparkling host proposed that the quartet should take an appropriately sparkling glass of wine. Georgiana looked from her wine glass at Mr. Lammle and at Mrs. Lammle; but mightn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, look at Mr. Fledgeby. Fascination looked from his wine glass at Mrs. Lammle and at Mr. Lammle; but mightn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, look at Georgiana.
More prompting was necessary. Cupid must be brought up to the mark. The manager had put him down in the bill for the part, and he must play it.
“Sophronia, my dear,” said Mr. Lammle, “I don’t like the colour of your dress.”
“I appeal,” said Mrs. Lammle, “to Mr. Fledgeby.”
“And I,” said Mr. Lammle, “to Georgiana.”