It was four o’clock of a sunny afternoon as he descended the stairs, pulling on his gloves; for he was for a little party at “Chatters,” to meet a neighbour or so, and Whimple held his horse at the door.
Taking him altogether, he was a handsome and amiable-looking gentleman, and manly withal; nor did his subscription to the dandyism of the day exhibit exaggeration or tastelessness. It is true his hair, now surmounted by the high-crowned beaver hat of the period, was “craped,” as the fashion-books would say, over his forehead, and liberally anointed with some lustrous oil; but cleanliness in this respect would have then been considered the merest affectation of eccentricity. For the rest, his long riding-coat, of many capes, concealed a toilet of cloth and silk and plaited lawn that, in its mode and finish, bespoke the highest traditions of metropolitan elegance.
So, at any rate, thought Betty Pollack, who was standing in the porch waiting to have a word with his honour.
Betty had driven over with her grandfather in an old taxed-cart, which was now drawn up at the broad end of the drive.
She curtsied like a daffodil to the sun; and Mr. Tuke nodded brightly to her as he buttoned the last ray of his glories into his coat.
“On what errand, my girl?” said he.
“With a humble message from grandfather, your honour,” she answered—“that there’s a battle-royal in his cockpit Saturday forenoon, and will your honour condescend to take a seat?”
“I don’t know. What would you have me do, Betty?”
“Sure, your honour’s the best judge. Cocks will be cocks, I suppose; but ’tis a cruel business to set natural enemies to the scratch, think I; and I’d rather have them in broth, with their necks wrung, when all’s said and done.”
“Then, I won’t come.”