"Do tell me who is that old buffer leaning against the mantelpiece. Is it Miss Blundell's brother?"
"Yes."
"Of course—I knew it—he could be nobody else's brother. Do study him. He'll do for your novel. Look at him, Cis. Observe that blue coat, is it not immeasurably, audaciously, sublimely impossible! The short waist, the large collar, like a horse-collar, the brass buttons, and scanty skirt! When was it made? In what dim remoteness of the mythic ages was it conceived and executed? What primitive and most ancient Briton first wore it? By Jove! I must ask the address of his tailor."
"No, no, Frank, for God's sake, don't."
"Then the flaming shawl-waistcoat, the grey trousers strapped so tightly over those big many-bunioned feet, the eye-glass, the flower in his button-hole, the withered smiling face, the jaunty juvenility of this most withered individual! Really, Miss Mason, you ought to make a collection from us all, for the privilege of seeing this unedited burlesque, this fabulous curiosity! He is a mummy unembalmed!"
The drollery of Frank's manner was irresistible, and both Hester and Cecil were bursting with laughter, when the unconscious object approached them, and asked Hester whether some one else would not add to the harmony of the evening.
"I am quite sure," he added, with a gallant bow, "that to your numerous accomplishments you add the gift of song."
Hester excused herself.
"You look like a singer," said Frank to him with perfect gravity. "I see it in your manner. Is it not so?"
A withered smile and feeble shake of the head was Mr. Blundell's answer.