CHAPTER LX.
SIR CHRISTOPHER BLUNT'S DOMESTIC HEARTH.
It was the morning following the incidents just related; and the scene changes to the house of Sir Christopher Blunt, in Jermyn Street.
The worthy knight and his lady were seated at breakfast.
The table literally groaned beneath the weight of the cold viands placed upon it; for the ex-lady's-maid was particularly addicted to good things, and she moreover thought that it was "quite the rage" to see cold fowls, ham, tongue, Perigord pie, and all kinds of marmalades spread for the morning repast.
Lady Blunt was in her glory of premeditated negligence and studied deshabillée. She was arrayed in a pea-green silk wrapper, trimmed all down the front with scarlet bows; and the cape was braided with the same glaring hue, so much affected by a certain Lady of Babylon. Her cap was decorated with ribands likewise of scarlet, and she wore red slippers. Her appearance was indeed most flaming, as she lolled, in delightful lassitude, in a capacious easy chair, with her foot upon an ottoman.
A stranger would have thought that so fine a lady could not possibly touch any thing more substantial than a thin slice of toast or half a muffin for her breakfast; but she had in reality paid her respects—and with a good will also—to every dish upon the table.
Sir Christopher was seated opposite to her, looking like a fish out of water; for, in order to please his dear wife—or rather, to have a little peace and quiet in the house—he had consented to adorn his person with a light blue dressing-gown, fastened by a gold cord and huge tassels at the waist, and a pair of bright red trowsers, large and loose like a Dutchman's. Moreover, a scarlet silk cap, with a long gold tassel, was perched airily over his left ear; so that altogether he seemed as if he were dressed out to enact the part of a Turk at a masquerade.
"Shall I cut you a leetle slice more ham, my love?" enquired Sir Christopher, in a mincing tone, as if he were afraid of receiving a box on the ears for not speaking civilly enough.
"No, Sir Christopher," answered the lady sharply: "you shan't send me a leetle ham, as you call it. I don't like the ham—and that's flat."
"And yet, my love—that is, my dear—" remonstrated the knight gently.