Imprudent Lady by Joan Smith

Author:Joan Smith [Smith, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1978-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

On the morrow, Dammler did not come. Anger with Prudence and shame with himself for having acted so badly kept him from making the promised call. To hell with her, he thought, and resumed his life of dissipation which he had been making some genuine efforts to curb since her lecture to him on love and degrees of goodness. What did she know or care about anything? Silly little chit—bowled over by that doddering old doctor. He shouldn’t have let himself spout off so to Coleridge though, and with Miss Burney there, too, to broadcast it.

Instead of Dammler, it was once again Ashington who came to call on Prudence. His excuse was a book—a translation of Vergil into English for her to read, as she had expressed an interest in his books. He said he would like it back when she had perused it, but had another treat ready to thrill her. He was giving a speech at a lecture hall that night, and wished her to attend.

“It will be of some interest to you, I hope—a little talk on the decline of drama. We have fallen a distance from the days of Aristophanes and Marlowe to what passes for drama nowadays. Drivel written by Dammler and the likes, about a harem in the East. I hope you don’t mean to attend it.”

“It is not being presented this year.”

“Is it not? I had hoped... Well everyone knows what it is about anyway. It will be all violence and lust and such things as should be prohibited. He and Shelley are a fine pair of atheists.”

Prudence did not much want to attend a lecture, but Clarence was having his cronies in for cards that evening, and a lecture might at least be instructive if not amusing. When Ashington mentioned that he had given Fanny Burney and Coleridge tickets the evening before, she decided to go. The glitter of famous names was still new enough that she enjoyed associating with them.

Clarence was disappointed that she would not be on display at his card party, but if there was anything that could bring him to accept it, it was her being so marvelously occupied elsewhere, in such company. The names of Coleridge and Burney and Ashington would be more mentioned at the card party than hearts, spades and clubs. Those notable persons might have been at the lecture, but if they were, Prudence saw none of them but Ashington. She sat alone in the front row of a sparsely filled hall on a chair of uncompromising hardness. The lecture was tedious and very long. Ashington knew a great many names of plays and playwrights, their plots and dates, and was determined to mention every one of them. From the Greeks to Sheridan, he could have not omitted one, in any language. The lecture began at eight-thirty; at eleven-thirty he was still at it. It seemed he would never end, but just before her eyes closed completely, he was bowing to light applause and walking towards her for congratulations.

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