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A gorgeous flunkey threw open the door with a virtuously severe expression on his breakfast-flushed countenance, an expression which relaxed into a smile of condescension on seeing who the visitor was. "I suppose Lady Winsleigh is at home, Briggs?" inquired Mrs. Marvelle, with the air of one familiar with the ways of the household. "Yes'm," replied Briggs slowly, taking in the "style" of Mrs.
I suppose you don't object?" "Object!" Mr. Marvelle made a deprecatory gesture, and raised his eyes in wonder. As if he dared object to anything whatsoever that his wife desired!
Rush-Marvelle had assured her they were "charming"-and she liked Mrs. Marvelle sufficiently well to be willing to please her.
"No, I haven't," laughed Ernest; "it's as straight as wait a bit!" And waving a lead pencil in the air, he drew an imaginary stroke with it. "The middle feather is bobbing up and down just on a line with your nose it couldn't be better!" "There, go along, you silly boy!" said Mrs. Marvelle, amused in spite of herself. "Get back to your lessons.
Marvelle, looking at herself once more in the glass, carefully arranged the ruffle of Honiton lace about her massive throat, "It was a little more than liking though, of course, her feelings were perfectly proper, and all that sort of thing, at least, I suppose they were!
But it's really dreadful to think of it all I would never have believed Philip Errington could have so disgraced himself!" "He is no gentleman!" said Lady Winsleigh freezingly. "He has low tastes and low desires. He and his friend Lorimer are two cads, in my opinion!" "Clara!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle warningly. "You were fond of him once! now, don't deny it!"
"You are looking very well, Clara," she said. "Let me see you went to Kissingen in the summer, didn't you?" "Of course I did," laughed her ladyship. "It was delicious! I suppose you know Lennie came after me there! Wasn't it ridiculous!" Mrs. Marvelle coughed dubiously. "Didn't Winsleigh put in an appearance at all?" she asked. Lady Clara's brow clouded. "Oh yes! For a couple of weeks or so.
In one swift glance Beau Lovelace observes all these different movements, and the inner fountain of his mirth begins to bubble. "What fun those Van Clupps are!" he thinks. "The old woman's got a diamond plaster on her neck! Horrible taste! She's anxious to show how much she's worth, I suppose! Mrs. Marvelle wants a shawl, and Lady Clara a bodice. By Jove!
Marvelle amused herself by searching the columns of Truth for some new tit-bit of immorality connected with the royalty or nobility of England.
Rush-Marvelle's bonnet, and mentally calculating its cost. "Her ladyship is in the boo-dwar." "I'll go there," said Mrs. Marvelle, stepping into the hall, and beginning to walk across it, in her own important and self-assertive manner. "You needn't announce me." Briggs closed the street-door, settled his powdered wig, and looked after her meditatively.
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