But another confidential conclave, of rather a more interesting nature
to the parties concerned, took place three days after these
occurrences in the shady walk in St James's Park. Under the trees
sauntered four people--equally divided--a lady and a gentleman; the
ladies brilliantly dressed, stout, and handsome--the gentlemen also in
the most fashionable costume: one tall and thin, the long-backed
Ticket; and the other short and amazingly comfortable-looking, Mr
William Whalley--for shortness called Bill. Whether, while he admired
the trunks of the old elms, he calculated what would be their value in
deals, this narrative disdains to mention; but it feels by no means
bound to retain the same cautious reserve with regard to his
sentiments while he gazed into the eyes of Emily Pitskiver. He thought
them beautiful eyes; and if they had been turned upon you with the
same loving, trusting expression, ten to one you would have thought
them beautiful too. The other pair seemed equally happy.
"So you don't like me the worse," said Mr Sidsby, "now that you know I
am not a poet?"
"I don't know how it is, but I don't think I care for poetry now at
all," replied the lady. "In fact, I suppose my passion for it was
never real, and I only fancied I was enchanted with it from hearing
papa and Mr Bristles perpetually raving about strength and genius. Is
Miss Hendy a really clever woman?"
"A genuine humbug, I should say--gooseberry champagne at two shillings
a bottle," was the somewhat professional verdict on Miss Hendy's
claims.
"Oh! you shouldn't talk that way of Miss Hendy--who knows but she may
be my mamma soon?"
"He can never be such a confounded jackass!" said Mr Sidsby, without
giving a local habitation or a name to the personal pronoun _he_.
"He loses his daughters, I can tell him," said Miss Sophy with a toss
of her head, that set all the flowers on the top of her bonnet
shaking--"Emily and I are quite resolved on that."
"But what can you do?" enquired the gentleman, who did not appear to
be very nearly akin to Oedipus.
"Do? Why, don't we get possession of mamma's fortune if he marries;
and can't we--oh, you've squeezed my ring into my finger!"
"My dear Sophy, I was only trying to show you how much I admired your
spirit. I hope he'll marry Miss Hendy with all my heart."
When a conversation has got to this point, a chronicle of any
pretensions to respectability will maintain a rigid silence; and we
will therefore only observe, that by the time Mr William Whalley and
Emily had come to Marlborough House, their conversation had arrived at
a point where discretion becomes as indispensably a chronicler's duty
as in the case of the other couple.
"We must get home," said Sophy.
"Why should you go yet? There is no chance of your father being back
from the city for hours to come."
"Oh! but we must get home. We have been out a long time." And so
saying, she led the way up the steps by the Duke of York's column,
followed by her sister and her swain--and attended at a respectful
distance by a tall gentleman with an immense gold-headed
walking-stick, displaying nether integuments of the brightest red, and
white silk stockings of unexampled purity. The reader, if he had heard
the various whispered allusions to different dishes, such as "sheep's
head," "calf's foot jelly," "rhubarb tart," and "toasted cheese,"
would have been at no loss to recognise the indignant Daggles, whose
culinary vocabulary it seemed impossible to exhaust. He followed,
watching every motion of the happy couples. "Well, if this ain't too
bad!--I've a great mind to tell old Pits how them disgusting
saussingers runs after his mince-pies--meets 'em in the Park;
gallivants with them under the trees as if they was ortolans and
beccaficas; bills and coos with 'em as if they was real turtles and
punch _à la Romaine_. How the old cucumber would flare up! Up Regent
Street, along Oxford Street, through the square, up to our own door.
Well, blowed if that ain't a good one! Into the very house they goes;
up stairs to the drawing-room. O Lord! that there should be such
impudence in beefsteaks and ingans! They couldn't be more audacious if
they was Perigord pies."