“When you see me next, you 'll fancy I 'm an archdeacon.” So saying, and guiding himself by the chairs, Paul Classon left the room.
With a quiet step, and firm, neither “overtaken” by liquor nor fatigued by the night's debauch, Davis hastened to his chamber. So long as he was occupied with the cares of dressing, his features betrayed no unusual anxiety; he did, indeed, endeavor to attire himself with more than ordinary care; and one cravat after another did he fling on the floor, where a number of embroidered vests were already lying. At length the toilet was completed, and Grog surveyed himself in the large glass, and was satisfied. He knew he didn't look like Annesley Beecher and that “lot,” still less did he resemble the old “swells” of Brookes's and the Carlton; but he thought there was something military, something sporting,—a dash of the “nag,” with “Newmarket,”—about him, that might pass muster anywhere! “At all events, Lizzy won't be ashamed of me,” muttered he to himself. “Poor, poor Lizzy!” added he, in a broken tone; and he sank down into a chair, and leaned his head on the table.
A gentle tap came to the door. “Come in,” said he, without raising his head; and she entered.
As the rich robe of silk rustled across the floor, he never raised his head; nor even when, bending over, she threw an arm around his neck and kissed his forehead, did he stir or move.
“I want you to look at me, dearest papa,” said she, softly.
“My poor Lizzy,—my own dear Lizzy!” murmured he, half indistinctly; then, starting suddenly up, he cried aloud, “Good heavens! is it worth all this—”
“No, indeed, papa,” burst she in; “it is not—it is not worth it!”
“What do you mean?” asked he, abruptly. “What were you thinking of?”
“It was your thoughts I was following out,” said she, drearily.
“How handsome,—how beautiful you are, girl!” exclaimed he, as, holding both her hands, he surveyed her at full length. “Is this Brussels lace?”