Llewellyn
Stanhope rose with the sentiment of the evening, he found satisfaction,
if not repletion, in the regards turned upon him.
Llewellyn got up with modest importance, and ran a hand through his
yellow hair, not dramatically, but with the effect of collecting his
ideas. He leaned a little forward; he was extremely, happily
conspicuous. The attention of the two lines of faces seemed to overcome
him, for an instant, with dizzy pleasure; Hilda's beside him was bent a
little, waiting.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Stanhope, looking with precision up and
down the table to be still more inclusive, "we have met together
to-night in honour of a lady who has given this city more pleasure in
the exercise of her profession than can be said of any single performer
during the last twenty years. Cast your eye back over the theatrical
record of Calcutta for that space of time, and you yourselves will admit
that there has been nobody that could be said to have come within a mile
of her shadow, if I may use the language of metaphor. [Applause, led by
Mr. Fillimore.] I would ask you to remember, at the same time, that this
pleasure has been of a superior class. I freely admit that this is a
great satisfaction to me personally.
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