“Talk about that great blackguard looking disgusting: here’s my great horror!”
“What, Perry-Morton?”
“Yes. Look at his hideously fat, smooth face, and his long greasy hair tucked behind his ears. Look at his open throat, and—confound the animal, yes—a crimson satin tie. Harry, I shall be had up one of these days for an atrocious assault upon that creature. I shall lie in wait for him like a bravo, and armed with a pair of new scissors I shall cut his hair. Is it possible to prevail upon him to go about clothed, and in his right mind?”
“For shame, Jemmy! and you a brother artist.”
“Brother artist be hanged! You don’t call that thing an artist.”
“Why, my dear boy, he’s acknowledged in society as the apostle of the poet-painters’ school.”
“Good God!”
“My dear boy, do restrain yourself,” laughed the other.
“I can’t help it. I do like a man to be a man, and for goodness’ sake look at that thing.”
“That thing,” as Magnus so contemptuously dubbed him, was certainly striking in appearance, as the open carriage in which he was riding came to a standstill, and he signed to the footman to let him out. For as he descended it was to stand upon a very thin pair of legs that in no sense corresponded with his plump, white, boyish face.