But this was not what the Widow wanted.
"It is not in the white, or yellow," said Mrs. WADMAN. My Uncle TOBY
looked with might and main into the pupil.
Now there never, surely, was an eye so fitted to rob my Uncle TOBY of
his repose as the very eye at which he was looking. It was not, Madam,
a rolling eye, a dissatisfied or a revolutionary one--nor was it an
eye wicked, wanton, or wandering--but it _was_ an eye sparkling,
petulant, and imperious, of high claims, and large exactions--an eye
full of brisk challenges and sharp responses, an eye of satisfied
strength and confident ascendancy--speaking, not like the dulcet
appeal of a mellow flute, but like the trumpet stop of some powerful
party organ. The cornea was perhaps a shade sallow or so, even verging
on the Widow's favourite Yellow--(for the Widow, like some modern
decorative artists, was sweet upon all tawny tints, from the most
delicate buff to the most _flamboyant_ Orange)--but as to any touch,
tint, or tone of her chromatic antipathy, Green----!!!
"Now, _dear_ Mr. SHANDY," cried the Widow, edging nearer, and opening
the optic to its widest, "tell me--tell me truly, _do_ you, _can_ you
detect the slightest suspicion of Green in _my_ eye----?"
"I protest, Madam," said my Uncle TOBY, "I can see nothing whatever of
the sort!"
* * * * *