Mr. Brown took a pocket-book from his pouch. “Six pots of mustard, sir,—shall I say six?”
“As many as you please,” replied Clarence; and Mr. Brown wrote down “Six pots of French mustard.”
“You are a very young gentleman, sir,” said Mr. Brown, “probably intended for some profession: I don’t mean to be impertinent, but if I can be of any assistance—”
“You can, sir,” replied Linden, “and immediately—have the kindness to ring the bell.”
Mr. Brown, with a grave smile, did as he was desired; the waiter re-entered, and, receiving a whispered order from Clarence, again disappeared.
“What profession did you say, sir?” renewed Mr. Brown, artfully.
“None!” replied Linden.
“Oh, very well,—very well indeed. Then as an idle, independent gentleman, you will of course be a bit of a beau; want some shirts, possibly; fine cravats, too; gentlemen wear a particular pattern now; gloves, gold, or shall I say gilt chain, watch and seals, a ring or two, and a snuff-box?”
“Sir, you are vastly obliging,” said Clarence, in undisguised surprise.
“Not at all, I would do anything for a relation of Mrs. Minden.”