Mr
Lupton was there, on the other side of Isabel, and was soon
engaged with her in a pleasant familiar conversation. Then
Silverbridge remembered that he had always thought Lupton to be a
most conceited prig. Nobody gave himself so many airs, or was so
careful as to the dyeing of his whiskers. It was astonishing that
Isabel should allow herself to be amused by such an antiquated
coxcomb. When they had finished eating they moved about and
changed their places. Mr Boncassen being rather anxious to stop
the flood of American eloquence which came from his friend Mr
Gotobed. British viands had become subject to his criticism, and
Mr Gotobed had declared to Mr Lupton that he didn't believe that
London could produce a dish of squash tomatoes. He was quite sure
you couldn't have sweet corn. Then there had been a moving of
seats in which the minister was shuffled off to Lady Beeswax, and
the poet found himself by the side of Isabel. 'Do you not regret
our mountains and our prairies?' said the poet; 'our great waters
and our green savannahs?' 'I think more perhaps of Fifth Avenue,'
said Miss Boncassen.
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