“I thank you, sir, yes,” said Philip, gratefully. “Agreed, then. Follow me—present you to Mrs. P.” Thus saying, Mr. Plaskwith returned the letter to the pocket-book, and the pocket-book to the pocket; and, putting his arms behind his coat tails, threw up his chin, and strode through the passage into a small parlour, that locked upon a small garden. Here, seated round the table, were a thin lady, with a squint (Mrs. Plaskwith), two little girls, the Misses Plaskwith, also with squints, and pinafores; a young man of three or four-and-twenty, in nankeen trousers, a little the worse for washing, and a black velveteen jacket and waistcoat. This young gentleman was very much freckled; wore his hair, which was dark and wiry, up at one side, down at the other; had a short thick nose; full lips; and, when close to him, smelt of cigars. Such was Mr. Plimmins, Mr. Plaskwith’s factotum, foreman in the shop, assistant editor to the Mercury. Mr. Plaskwith formally went the round of the introduction; Mrs. P. nodded her head; the Misses P. nudged each other, and grinned; Mr. Plimmins passed his hand through his hair, glanced at the glass, and bowed very politely.
“Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give Mr. Morton his dish of tea. Must be tired, sir—hot day. Jemima, ring—no, go to the stairs and call out ‘more buttered toast.’ That’s the shorter way—promptitude is my rule in life, Mr. Morton. Pray-hum, hum—have you ever, by chance, studied the biography of the great Napoleon Buonaparte?”
Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip under the table. Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, and replied, sullenly, “No, sir.”
“That’s a pity. Napoleon Buonaparte was a very great man,—very! You have seen his cast?—there it is, on the dumb waiter! Look at it! see a likeness, eh?”
“Likeness, sir? I never saw Napoleon Buonaparte.”
“Never saw him! No, just look round the room. Who does that bust put you in mind of? who does it resemble?”
Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself in an attitude; his hand in his waistcoat, and his face pensively inclined towards the tea-table. “Now fancy me at St. Helena; this table is the ocean. Now, then, who is that cast like, Mr. Philip Morton?”
“I suppose, sir, it is like you!”
“Ah, that it is! strikes every one! Does it not, Mrs. P., does it not? And when you have known me longer, you will find a moral similitude—a moral, sir! Straightforward—short—to the point—bold—determined!”
“Bless me, Mr. P.!” said Mrs. Plaskwith, very querulously, “do make haste with your tea; the young gentleman, I suppose, wants to go home, and the coach passes in a quarter of an hour.”