“I 'd give—I don't know what I would n't give—that I could recall that stupid speech. I declare I think it is this fearful language has done it all. One can no more employ the Anglo-Saxon tongue for a matter of delicate treatment, than one could paint a miniature with a hearth-brush. What a pleasant coinage for cajolery are the liquid lies of the sweet South, where you can lisp duplicity, and seem never to hurt the Decalogue.”
As he had written so far, a noisy summons at his door aroused him; while the old Commodore's voice called out, “Maitland! Maitland! I want a word with you.” Maitland opened the door, and without speaking, returned to the fire, standing with his back to it, and his hands carelessly stuck in his pockets.
“I thought I 'd come over and have a cigar with you here, and a glass of brandy-and-water,” said Graham. “They 're hard at it yonder, with harp and piano, and, except holystoning a deck, I don't know its equal.”
“I 'm the more sorry for your misfortune, Commodore, that I am unable to alleviate it I 'm deep in correspondence just now, as you see there, and have a quantity more to do before bedtime.”
“Put it aside, put it aside; never write by candlelight. It ruins the eyes; and yours are not so young as they were ten years ago.”
“The observation is undeniable,” said Maitland, stiffly.
“You're six-and-thirty? well, five-and-thirty, I take it.”
“I 'm ashamed to say I cannot satisfy your curiosity on so natural a subject of inquiry.”
“Sally says forty,” said he, in a whisper, as though the remark required caution. “Her notion is that you dye your whiskers; but Beck's idea is that you look older than you are.”
“I scarcely know to which of the young ladies I owe my deeper acknowledgments,” said Maitland, bowing.