Pictures there were, of course. There was a large engraving of Ruth and Boaz, to which Mrs Max always drew your attention with—
“Would not you suppose that Mr Shingle had sat for Boaz?”
And when you agreed that he might, Violante always joined in, directing one eye at you, and saying—
“People always think, too, that the Ruth is so like Mrs Maximilian.” Then the other eye came slowly up to finish the first one’s task, and seemed to say, “Now, then, what do you think of that?”
The place was well furnished, but, from the pictures to the carpets, everything was of an ecclesiastical pattern; and when Max came in, with a white cravat, you felt that you were in the presence of a substantial rector, if he were not a canon, or a dean.
In a wicked fit, Dick had once dubbed his brother and sister-in-law “Sage and Onions”—the one from his solid, learned look; the other from her being always strangely scented, and her weakness for bursting into tears.
Upon the present occasion, she sat for a few minutes, and then, taking out her handkerchief, began to weep silently.
“Your guardian is always late for dinner, my dear; and everything will be spoilt. Where is Tom?”
“Gone hanging about after Miss Jessie, I suppose,” said Violante, with a roll of one eye. “And Fred as well,” she added, with the other.
“It is a strange infatuation on the part of my two sons. Your dear guardian’s Esau and Jacob,” said Mrs Max, wiping her eyes. “I wonder how it is that poor creature, Richard Shingle, makes his money.”