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His tone was not quite nice, although perhaps the Lady Mary was the only one to perceive the note of challenge in it. But Mr. Craske, the poet, diverted attention to himself by a prolonged, malicious chuckle. Rotherby was just moving away from his mother at that moment. "They've never a word for each other to-day!" he cried.
Craske, the poet, who stood at her elbow now, had described them in the dedicatory sonnet of his last book of poems. There was a sudden stir in the group. Mr. Craske had caught sight of Lady Ostermore and Mistress Winthrop, and he fell to giggling, a flimsy handkerchief to his painted lips. "Oh, 'Sbud!" he bleated. "Let me die! The audaciousness of the creature!
Craske had seemed to make sardonic comment: the erect stiffness of her carriage, the eyes that looked neither to right nor left, and the pallor of her face. He observed, too, the complacent air with which her ladyship advanced beside her husband's ward, her fan moving languidly, her head nodding to her acquaintance, as in supreme unconcern of the stir her coming had effected. Mr.
"He'll put you in the pillory of his verse for this," laughed Collis. "Ye'll be most scurvily lampooned for't." "Poor Mr. Craske!" sighed the Lady Mary again. "Poor, indeed; but not in the sense to deserve pity. An upstart impostor such as that to soil a lady with his criticism!" Lady Mary's brows went up.
You shall hear from me." He bowed a third time a bow that took in the entire company and withdrew in high dudgeon and with a great show of dignity. A pause ensued, and then the Lady Mary reproved Mr. Caryll. "Oh, 'twas cruel in you, sir," she cried. "Poor Mr. Craske! And to dub him plagiarist! 'Twas the unkindest cut of all!" "Truth, madam, is never kind." "Oh, fie! You make bad worse!" she cried.
Craske, quivering, yet controlling himself, bowed stiffly. "I have too much respect for myself " he gasped. "Ye'll be singular in that, no doubt," said Mr. Caryll, and turned his shoulder upon him. Again Mr. Craske appeared to make an effort at self-control; again he bowed. "I know I hope what is due to the Lady Mary Deller, to to answer you as as befits. But you shall hear from me, sir.
He was on the road, once more, the road to fortune, and to her. Cheetham came in, and found him walking excitedly, with the paper in his hand, and of course took the vulgar view of his emotion. "Ay, lad," said he, "and they are all swells, I promise you. There's Miss Laura Craske. That's the mayor's daughter. Lady Betty Tyrone. She's a visitor. Miss Castleton! Her father is the county member."
For, in order to show how a story could be interpreted without words, Miss Genée, the brilliant dancer, ably assisted by Miss D. Craske, represented the ballet scene from Nicholas Nickleby, between the infant phenomenon and the Indian.
He could not contain his rage, yet from his languid tone none would have suspected it. "Sir," said he, "ye've a singular unpleasant voice." Mr. Craske, thrown out of countenance by so much directness, could only stare; the same did the others, though some few tittered, for Mr. Craske, when all was said, was held in no great esteem by the discriminant. Mr. Caryll lowered his glass.
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