It was impossible not to notice the change in the cherub’s appearance. The cherub felt very conscious of it, and modestly remarked:
‘A present from my daughter Bella, Mr Rokesmith.’
The words gave the Secretary a stroke of pleasure, for he remembered the fifty pounds, and he still loved the girl. No doubt it was very weak—it always is very weak, some authorities hold—but he loved the girl.
‘I don’t know whether you happen to have read many books of African Travel, Mr Rokesmith?’ said R. W.
‘I have read several.’
‘Well, you know, there’s usually a King George, or a King Boy, or a King Sambo, or a King Bill, or Bull, or Rum, or Junk, or whatever name the sailors may have happened to give him.’
‘Where?’ asked Rokesmith.
‘Anywhere. Anywhere in Africa, I mean. Pretty well everywhere, I may say; for black kings are cheap—and I think’—said R. W., with an apologetic air, ‘nasty’.
‘I am much of your opinion, Mr Wilfer. You were going to say—?’
‘I was going to say, the king is generally dressed in a London hat only, or a Manchester pair of braces, or one epaulette, or an uniform coat with his legs in the sleeves, or something of that kind.’