“Well done, Roger! That’s right! Go on!” cried his father, laughing heartily.
“Is it not my aunt? No? Is it the little Bee, then? Why you are grown as like her! But where is Aunt Geoffrey then? Not here? That is a bore. I thought you would have all been in port here at Christmas. And is not this Philip? Come tell me, some of you, instead of laughing there. Are you Fred Langford, then?”
“Right this time,” said Fred, “so now you must shake hands with me in my own name.”
“Very glad to do so, and see you here at last,” said Roger, cordially. “And now tell me, what is all this about? One would think you were crossing the Line?”
“You shall hear what it is all about, and see too,” said Mr. Langford. “We must have that wicked old Jew disappointed, must not we, Willy? But where is my little Portia? What is become of her?”
“Fled, I suspect,” said her mother, “gone to turn into herself before her introduction.”
“O, Roger, it was so jolly,” Carey was now heard to say above the confusion of voices. “Uncle Geoffrey was an old Jew, going to cut a pound of flesh out of Fred, and Henrietta was making a speech in a lawyer’s wig, and had just found such a dodge!”
“Ha! like the masks in the carnival at Rio! Ferrars and I went ashore there, and—”
“Have you been at Sutton Leigh, Roger?”
“Have you dined?”