“Will you tell him, then, that I am waiting?”
“I has, ma'am; but master misses his shaving-rag, and he says he won't come to the Mogul till he's found it.” And then he went on with sharpening his knife.
This little circumstance was at least sufficient to satisfy Cecilia that if she fixed her abode with Mr Briggs, she should not have much uneasiness to fear from the sight of extravagance and profusion.
She returned to the parlour, and after waiting another half-hour, Mr Briggs made his appearance.
Mr Briggs was a short, thick, sturdy man, with very small keen black eyes, a square face, a dark complexion, and a snub nose. His constant dress, both in winter and summer, was a snuff-colour suit of clothes, blue and white speckled worsted stockings, a plain shirt, and a bob wig. He was seldom without a stick in his hand, which he usually held to his forehead when not speaking.
This bob wig, however, to the no small amazement of Cecilia, he now brought into the room upon the forefinger of his left hand, while, with his right, he was smoothing the curls; and his head, in defiance of the coldness of the weather, was bald and uncovered.
“Well,” cried he, as he entered, “did you think I should not come?”
“I was very willing, sir, to wait your leisure.”
“Ay, ay, knew you had not much to do. Been looking for my shaving-rag. Going out of town; never use such a thing at home, paper does as well. Warrant Master Harrel never heard of such a thing; ever see him comb his own wig? Warrant he don't know how! never trust mine out of my hands, the boy would tear off half the hair; all one to master Harrel, I suppose. Well, which is the warmer man, that's all? Will he cast an account with me?”
Cecilia, at a loss what to say to this singular exordium, began an apology for not waiting upon him sooner.