Mr. Lismore And The Widow
Late in the autumn, not many years since, a public meeting was held at the
Mansion House, London, under the direction of the Lord Mayor.
The list of gentlemen invited to address the audience had been chosen with two
objects in view. Speakers of celebrity, who would rouse public enthusiasm, were
supported by speakers connected with commerce, who would be practically
useful in explaining the purpose for which the meeting was convened. Money
wisely spent in advertising had produced the customary result: every seat was
occupied before the proceedings began.
Among the late arrivals, who had no choice but to stand or to leave the hall, were
two ladies. One of them at once decided on leaving the hall.
"I shall go back to the carriage," she said, "and wait for you at the door."
Her friend answered, "I sha'n't keep you long. He is advertised to support the
second resolution; I want to see him, and that is all."
An elderly gentleman, seated at the end of a bench, rose and offered his place to
the lady who remained. She hesitated to take advantage of his kindness, until he
reminded her that he had heard what she said to her friend. Before the third
resolution was proposed his seat would be at his own disposal again. She
thanked him, and without further ceremony took his place. He was provided with
an opera-glass, which he more than once offered to her when famous orators
appeared on the platform. She made no use of it until a speaker, known in the
City as a ship-owner, stepped forward to support the second resolution.
His name (announced in the advertisements) was Ernest Lismore.
The moment he rose the lady asked for the opera-glass. She kept it to her eyes
for such a length of time, and with such evident interest in Mr. Lismore, that the
curiosity of her neighbours was aroused. Had he anything to say in which a lady
(evidently a stranger to him) was personally interested? There was nothing in the
address that he delivered which appealed to the enthusiasm of women. He was
undoubtedly a handsome man, whose appearance proclaimed him to be in the
prime of life, midway, perhaps, between thirty and forty years of age. But why a
lady should persist in keeping an opera-glass fixed on him all through his speech
was a question which found the general ingenuity at a loss for a reply.
