But it was merely the mental inquiry following a glance at mud-spots on the coat.
‘We’ll lunch; lunch with me, I must eat, tell me then,’ said Mr. Radnor, adding within himself: ‘Emptiness! want of food!’ to account for recent ejaculations and qualms. He had not eaten for a good four hours.
Fenellan’s tone signified to his feverish sensibility of the moment, that the matter was personal; and the intimation of a touch on domestic affairs caused sinkings in his vacuity, much as though his heart were having a fall.
He mentioned the slip on the bridge, to explain his: need to visit a haberdasher’s shop, and pointed at the waistcoat.
Mr. Fenellan was compassionate over the ‘Poor virgin of the smoky city!’
‘They have their ready-made at these shops—last year’s: perhaps, never mind, do for the day,’ said Mr. Radnor, impatient for eating, now that he had spoken of it. ‘A basin of turtle; I can’t wait. A brush of the coat; mud must be dry by this time. Clear turtle, I think, with a bottle of the Old Veuve. Not bad news to tell? You like that Old Veuve?’
‘Too well to tell bad news of her,’ said Mr. Fenellan in a manner to reassure his friend, as he intended. ‘You wouldn’t credit it for the Spring of the year, without the spotless waistcoat?’
‘Something of that, I suppose.’ And so saying, Mr. Radnor entered the shop of his quest, to be complimented by the shopkeeper, while the attendants climbed the ladder to upper stages for white-waistcoat boxes, on his being; the first bird of the season; which it pleased him to hear; for the smallest of our gratifications in life could give a happy tone to this brightly-constituted gentleman.