“I don’t admire such light hair,” replied the gentleman, whose own chevelure was of the sandiest; “and she wants expression; and her eyes are too far apart; and people’s skins should be even whiter than hers to admit of such very low dresses.”
Why are ladies always pleased when other ladies’ dresses are thought too low? Cissy was not above the prejudices of her sex. She gave him a bewitching smile, and called him “a ridiculous creature.”
Even Mr. Sawyer could not misinterpret such signs of favour. Whatever Miss Mexico may have thought, she had never called him “a ridiculous creature” in her life.
“What I admire,” he proceeded, stealing a look at Miss Cissy as he enumerated her personal advantages, “is more colouring, darker hair, and arched eyebrows, and deeper eyes, long eyelashes, and altogether a fresher and brighter style of beauty; in short, I don’t think she would look at all well in a white dress with cherry-coloured trimmings.”
It was the very dress she wore herself. There was no mistake, thought the fair angler: she had hooked him. So she gave him another of the captivating glances, and changed the conversation by drawing his attention to her fan, of which the fragrant sandal-wood only added fuel to his flame, while she turned to Struggles, who, having made an excellent dinner, was vainly endeavouring to talk to her about the coming ball.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Merrywether, whose most prejudiced detractor could not have accused her, at this juncture, of wanting expression, was forcing the running with the agreeable Brush. She was shaking her head, and making eyes, and showing her teeth, and flourishing her shoulders at him, with a degree of energy that must have been fatal to a less experienced campaigner. The Major, however, was proof against all the usual weapons of the female armoury. A confirmed flirt, it was his habit just to stop short of love-making with every woman he sat next to; but, if truth must be told, he never yet had seen one whose attractions he could place in comparison with his cutlet, his champagne, his claret, and his after-dinner cigar. A good-humoured, brainless, easy-going bon-vivant, it was the Major’s eventual destiny to marry a learned lady, with blue spectacles, under whose dynasty he faded away, and was lost to the world altogether. But with this, at present, we have nothing to do.
Mrs. Merrywether was quite willing to take him as he was. Before the cheese was off the table, he had settled an expedition to the Crystal Palace with her, the first time they were both in London, and secured a flower from her bouquet, which he placed, with much mock-devotion, in a glass of sherry and water. Also, on the departure of the ladies, he dived for, and brought to the surface, the following articles, the property of the efflorescent widow: One French fan—epoch, Louis-Quatorze; one pair of white gloves, bound with ribbon, and numbered six and three-quarters; one gold vinaigrette, with tiny chain complete; and one lace-edged handkerchief, with a square inch of cambric in the middle—it is presumed, in case of necessity, to dry the fair mourner’s tears.
After this crowning feat, he threw himself back in his chair, and settled to his host’s claret, like a man who is thoroughly well satisfied with himself.
Never was a dinner that went off better. Mrs. Dove had Savage to listen to, who was well-informed, and Crasher to look at, who was well dressed. Struggles and Dove were congenial souls, and, if once they could get together uninterrupted, would talk about hunting by the hour. Mrs. Merrywether was pleased with her dinner; pleased with her neighbour; also—for she knew, even before she went to the glass in the drawing-room, that she was looking her best—pleased with herself. Cissy was satisfied; Sawyer enchanted; and Crasher, looking forward with lazy gratification to a dangerous drive in the dark, was in higher spirits than usual.
We will leave the ladies to their tea and coffee, undisturbed. The gentlemen close up round their host. A dry biscuit and a magnum of the undeniable make their appearance. The parson fills out a bumper of the rosy fluid, and proposes his first and only toast—“Fox-hunting!”