Chapter Sixteen.
High life above stairs, a little below the mark—Fashion French, Virtue, and all that.
Six o’clock was now near at hand, and Mrs Turnbull entered the drawing-room in full dress. She certainly was a very handsome woman, and had every appearance of being fashionable; but it was her language which exposed her. She was like the peacock. As long as she was silent you could but admire the plumage, but her voice spoilt all. “Now, Mr Turnbull,” said she, “I wish to hexplain to you that there are certain himproprieties in your behaviour which I cannot put hup with, particularly that hof talking about when you were before the mast.”
“Well, my dear, is that anything to be ashamed of?”
“Yes, Mr Turnbull, that his—one halways sinks them ere particulars in fashionable society. To wirtuperate in company a’n’t pleasant, and Hi’ve thought of a plan which may hact as an himpediment to your vulgarity. Recollect, Mr T, whenhever I say that Hi’ve an ’eadache, it’s to be a sign for you to ’old your tongue; and, Mr T, hoblige me by wearing kid gloves all the evening.”
“What! at dinner time, my dear?”
“Yes, Mr T, at dinner time; your ’ands are not fit to be touched.”
“Well, I recollect when you thought otherwise.”
“When, Mr T? ’ave I not often told you so?”