In an instant the scales fell from the middle-aged gentleman's eyes, and he exclaimed seriously, and trying to look reproachfully, “This, Benjamin, is another of your Tomfooleries.”
Mr. Bosky pleaded guilty; but urged, in mitigation, the rusty old black, and the brilliant bright blue: concluding with a glowing panegyric on the tout ensemble, which he declared to be the masterpiece of Mr. Rumfit's thimble and shears.
Uncle Timothy was in no humour to put himself out of one: and when, after a few minutes trying on the suit in his tiring-room, just to see—out of mere curiosity—if it did fit, he returned in full pontificalibus, a middle-aged Adonis! he seemed moderately reconciled to his new metamorphosis, and rang for the old-fashioned housekeeper.
Norah Noclack was a woman of few words. On her entrance she started, stared amazedly, and uttered the interjection, “Ah!” with the further additions of “Well, I'm sure!”
“—That with a cap and bells, a dark lantern, a pasteboard red nose, a chair, and half a score of ragged urchins to shout me an ovation, I should make an undeniable old Guy! Eh, Norah?”
The ancient housekeeper shook her antediluvian high-crowned cap and streamers in token of dissent, and Mr. Bosky was unutterably shocked at the impossible idea.
“Well,” added Uncle Timothy, strutting to and fro with mock dignity,
“'Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost!'
“Here, Norah, run and buy me sixpenny-worth of flowers to stick in my button-hole. No dahlias, or hollyhocks.”