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"He plays still; he is in a hell every night almost," Mr. Eales added. "I should think so, since his marriage," said a wag. "He gives devilish good dinners," said Foker, striking up for the honor of his host of yesterday. "I daresay, and I daresay he doesn't ask Eales," the wag said. "I say, Eales, do you dine at Clavering's at the Begum's?" "I dine there?" said Mr.
Foker's own equipages, but was hired from a livery stable for festive purposes; Foker, however, put his own carriage into requisition that morning, and for what purpose does the kind reader suppose? Why did he want to see his dear friend Pen so much?
What tired frequenter of the London pave is there that cannot remember having had similar early delusions, and would not call them back again? Here was young Foker again, like an ardent votary of pleasure as he was.
Poyntz remarked, and Foker striking spurs into his pony, cantered away down Rotten Row, his mind agitated with various emotions, ambitions, mortifications. He was sorry that he had not been good at his books in early life that he might have cut out all those chaps who were about her, and who talked the languages, and wrote poetry, and painted pictures in her album, and and that.
"I'm coaching there," said the other, with a nod. "What?" asked Pen, and in a tone of such wonder, that Foker burst out laughing, and said, "He was blowed if he didn't think Pen was such a flat as not to know what coaching meant." "I'm come down with a coach from Oxford. A tutor, don't you see, old boy? He's coaching me, and some other men, for the little go.
Foker spoke strongly in favour of the Major's character for veracity and honour, and described him as a tip-top swell, moving in the upper-circle of society, who would never submit to any deceit much more to deceive such a charming young woman as Miss Foth. He touched delicately upon the delicate marriage question, though he couldn't help showing that he held Pen rather cheap.
Foker and Pen passed by this chamber, now closed with death-like shutters, and entered into the young man's own quarters. Dusky streams of sunbeams were playing into that room, and lighting up poor Harry's gallery of dancing girls and opera nymphs with flickering illuminations. "Look here! I can't help telling you, Pen," he said.
It was in vain that Pen recalled to his own mind what a stupid ass Foker used to be at school how he could scarcely read, how he was not cleanly in his person, and notorious for his blunders and dulness. Mr.
"She ought to be a duchess, I know that very well, and I know she wouldn't take me unless I could make her a great place in the world for I ain't good for anything myself much I ain't clever and that sort of thing," Foker said sadly. "If I had all the diamonds that all the duchesses and marchionesses had on to-night, wouldn't I put 'em in her lap? But what's the use of talking?
Me and Spavin have the drag between us. And I thought I'd just tool over and go to the play. Did you ever see Rowkins do the hornpipe?" and Mr. Foker began to perform some steps of that popular dance in the inn yard, looking round for the sympathy of his groom and the stable-men. Pen thought he would like to go to the play too: and could ride home afterwards, as there was a moonlight.
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