The one was Spenser Ellersby, only son of a wealthy West Indian planter, and the other Horace Marton a well-known society man generally called The Town-crier, from the fact that he knew all the current scandals and retailed them with elaborate embellishments to his numerous circle of friends.
"Hey! Ellersby, my boy," said The Town-crier, on the alert to acquire fresh information "have you come back once more to England, home and beauty--hey? been all over the world I suppose, hey?--going to publish a book of travels--hey?"
"Not me," replied Ellersby in the slow, languid manner habitual to him, "everyone who goes half-a-dozen miles now-a-days publishes a book of travels under some fantastic title. I prefer to be renowned for not having done so."
"No," indifferently. "I haven't the instincts of Columbus so the old ground was good enough for me. I've done Africa in a superficial manner, called on our American cousins, passed the same compliment to our Australian ditto, in fact done the usual thing with the usual result."
"A sense of being bored--I agree with Voltaire to a certain extent, 'this is the best of all possible worlds,' but one does get and little tired of it--however I have satisfied your curiosity, now return the compliment. I've been away from England for two years so know nothing of life in town--come unfold--tell me all--scandals, deaths, marriages, divorces, in fact all the gossip of the hour."
This was an occupation after The Town-crier's own heart, so he launched out into a long description of folly and fashion varied by sermons and scandal, which being spiced with a little maliciousness proved quite an amusing discourse. Ellersby listened in silence with a quiet smile on his lips, every now and then giving vent to an ejaculation as he heard some special morsel of news.
"You ought to write your memoirs, Marton," he said drily, "they would be as gossiping as Pepys, as scandalous De Grammont, and as amusing as either, but go on--anything more? Who are the new beauties?"
"Hey! oh! one was here to-night, Lady Balscombe."
"What! old Balscombe married," said Ellersby in a surprised tone. "I thought he loved no one but himself--so!--and who is my lady?"
"That's what everyone wants to know," replied Marton eagerly, "he picked her up down in the country somewhere, but she's got no pedigree--no money, no talents--nothing but personal beauty."