On reaching the drawing-room we found Mr. Coleman standing with his arms folded with an air of dignified severity, so exactly in the centre of the hearth-rug that he seemed to belong to the pattern. Seated in a low arm-chair on the right-hand side of the fireplace was Mrs. Coleman, apparently absorbed in the manufacture of some mysterious article of knitting, which constantly required propitiating by the repetition of a short arithmetical puzzle, without which it would by no means allow itself to be created. At her feet, engaged in the Sisyphian labour of remedying the effects of “a great fall” in worsteds, scissors, and other “articles for the work-table,” knelt Lucy Markham, looking so piquante and pretty, that I could not help wondering how my friend Freddy contrived to keep himself heart-whole, if, as I imagined, he was thrown constantly into her society. The party was completed by a large, sleek, scrupulously white cat, clearly a privileged individual, who sat bolt upright in the chair opposite Mrs. Coleman, regarding the company with an air of intense self-satisfaction, and evidently considering the whole thing got up for her express delectation. Mr. Coleman received me with pompous civility, hoping I felt no ill effects from my exertions in the earlier part of the evening—taking care to lay a marked emphasis on the word earlier. Lucy acknowledged my presence by a smile and a slight inclination of the head, but without altering her position. Worthy Mrs. Coleman, however, jumped up and shook hands warmly with me, thereby providing Lucy with full employment for the next ten minutes in picking up the whole machinery of the knitting.
“Very glad indeed to see you, Mr. Lawless,” commenced Mrs. Coleman.
“It's Fairlegh, mother,” interposed Freddy.
“Yes, my dear, yes, I knew it was Mr. Fairlegh, only I'm always making a mistake about names; but I never forget a face I have once seen; and I'm sure I'm not likely to forget Mr. Fairlegh's after the noble way in which he behaved last night” (here Mr. Coleman turned away with a kind of ironical growl, and began caressing the cat). “I declare when I saw him setting Clara Saville's dress on fire, so nicely made as it was too——”
“My dear aunt,” remonstrated Lucy, “it was Mr. Lawless who threw down the candelabrum, and set Clara's frock alight.”
“Yes, my love, I know, I saw it all, my dear; and very kind it was of him, I mean afterwards, in speaking to me of it; he said he was so very sorry about it—and he called it something funny, poor young man—'no end of a something or other '———”
“Sell,” suggested Freddy.
“Oh yes, that was it, no end of a sell. What did he mean by that, my dear?”
"I strongly disapprove,” observed Mr. Coleman (who still continued stroking the cat as he spoke, which process he performed by passing his hand deliberately from her head, along her back, to the very tip of her tail, which he retained each time in his grasp for a moment, ere he recommenced operations), “I highly disapprove of the absurd practice, so common with young men of the present day, of expressing their ideas in that low and incomprehensible dialect, termed 'slang,' which, in my opinion, has neither wit nor refinement to redeem its vulgarity, and which effectually prevents their acquiring that easy yet dignified mode of expression which should characterise the conversation of the true gentleman. In my younger days we took Burke for our model; the eloquence of Pitt and Fox gave the tone to society; and during our hours of relaxation we emulated the polished wit of Sheridan; but it is a symptom of that fearful levelling system which is one of the most alarming features of the present age; instead of striving to raise and exalt———”
“Really, my dear Mr. Coleman, I beg your pardon for interrupting you,” cried his wife, “but this is the second time you've lifted my poor little cat off her hind legs by her tail; and though she's as good as gold, and lets you do just what you like to her, it can't be pleasant for her, I'm sure.”