“Ah, Mr. Spicer, my Lord said, if I should meet you, to mention he wishes to see you.”
“Do you think he'd receive me now, Kuffner?”
“Well, I 'll go and see.”
Mr. Kuffner came speedily back, and, beckoning to Spicer to follow, led the way to Lord Lackington's room. “He is dressing for dinner, but will see you,” added he, as he introduced him.
The noble Viscount did not turn from the mirror at which he was elaborately arranging his neckcloth as Spicer entered, but satisfied himself with calling out, “Take a chair, Spicer; you 'll find one somewhere.”
The tone of the salutation was not more significant than the aspect of this room itself. All the articles of a costly dressing-case of silver-gilt were ranged on one table Essence-bottles, snuff-boxes, pipe-heads, with rings, jewelled buttons, and such-like knick-knackeries covered another; whatever fancy could suggest or superfluity compass of those thousand-and-one trinkets the effeminacy of our age has introduced into male costume, all abounded. Quantities, too, of the most expensive clothes were there,—rich uniforms, fur-lined pelisses, and gold-embroidered waistcoats. And as Mr. Spicer quickly made the tour of these with his eye, his gaze rested at last on my Lord himself, whose dressing-gown of silver brocade would have made a state robe for a Venetian Doge.
“Everything is in confusion just now; but if you 'll throw down some of those things, you 'll get a chair,” said Beecher, carelessly.
Spicer, however, preferred to take his place at the chimney, on which he leaned in an attitude that might take either the appearance of respect or familiarity, as the emergency required.
“When did you arrive?” asked my Lord.
“About two hours ago,” was the short reply.