But it appeared that it was
their custom after dinner to have the table-cover removed and some
port wine placed on the mahogany. Mr. Roscorla, who had felt as yet no
ugly sensations about his finger-joints, regarded this ceremony with
equanimity, but it was made the subject of some ominous joking on the
part of his companions. Then joking led to joking. There were no more
politics. Some very funny stories were told. Occasionally one or two
names were introduced, as of persons well known in London society,
though not of it; and Mr. Roscorla was surprised that he had never
heard these names before: you see how one becomes ignorant of the
world if one buries one's self down in Cornwall. Mr. Roscorla began to
take quite an interest in these celebrated people, in the price of
their ponies, and the diamonds they were understood to have worn at a
certain very singular ball. He was pleased to hear, too, of the manner
in which the aristocracy of England were resuming their ancient
patronage of the arts, for he was given to understand that a young
earl or baron could scarcely be considered a man of fashion unless he
owned a theatre.
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