“No, the leg, if you please, Mr. Peddar; no more wine. Well, just one glass, to drink a hearty farewell to the old house.”
“I 'm sure I wish Mary joy of her residence there,” said Peddar, adjusting his cravat; “she is a devilish fine girl, and might do better, though.”
“She has no ambitions,—no what you call them?—no aspirations for le grand monde; so perhaps she has reason to stay where she is.”
“But with a young fellow of ton and fashion, mam'selle,—a fellow who has seen life,—to guide and bring her out, trust me, there are excellent capabilities in that girl.” And as Mr. Peddar enunciated the sentiment, his hands ran carelessly through his hair, and performed a kind of impromptu toilet.
“She do dress herself bien mal.”
“Disgracefully so,” chimed in Mrs. Runt “I believe, whenever she bought a gown, her first thought was what it should turn into when she 'd done with it.”
“I thought that la Henderson might have taught her something,” said Peddar, affectedly.
“Au contraire,—she like to make the contrast more strong; she always seek to make say, 'Regardez, mademoiselle, see what a tournure is there!'”
“Do you think her handsome, Mr. Peddar?” asked Mrs. Runt.
“Handsome, yes; but not my style,—not one of what I call my women; too much of this kind of thing, eh?” And he drew his head back, and threw into his features an expression of exaggerated scorn.