To be beautiful is enough. If
a woman can do that well: who shall demand more from her? You don't want
a rose to sing. And I think wit is out of place where there's great
beauty; as I wouldn't have a Queen to cut jokes on her throne. I say,
Pendennis,"--here broke off the enthusiastic youth,--"have you got
another cigar? Shall we go into Finch's, and have a game at billiards?
Just one--it's quite early yet. Or shall we go in the Haunt? It's
Wednesday night, you know, when all the boys go." We tap at a door in an
old, old street in Soho: an old maid with a kind, comical face opens the
door, and nods friendly, and says, "How do, sir? ain't seen you this ever
so long. How do, Mr. Noocom?" "Who's here?" "Most everybody's here." We
pass by a little snug bar, in which a trim elderly lady is seated by a
great fire, on which boils an enormous kettle; while two gentlemen are
attacking a cold saddle of mutton and West India pickles: hard by Mrs.
Nokes the landlady's elbow--with mutual bows--we recognise Hickson, the
sculptor, and Morgan, the intrepid Irish chieftain, chief of the
reporters of the Morning Press newspaper.
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