At the same time the servant placed upon the table a card, bearing the name of Captain O'Blunderbuss.
"Tell the gentleman I'll be with him in a moment, John," said Sir Christopher.
The servant bowed and retired.
"Do you know who he is?" asked Lady Blunt.
"No, I do not," responded the knight, more sulkily than he had ever yet dared to speak to his wife.
"Come, now, Sir Christopher," exclaimed her ladyship; "don't have any of your ill-humours with me, because I can't a-bear them. Say you're sorry for what you've done, and I'll not only forgive you, but also patch your face for you with diakkulum plaster. Come, now—do what I tell you."
And as her ladyship seemed to examine her finger nails, as she spoke, in a manner which portended her readiness to make another onslaught, the miserable husband muttered a few words of abject apology for an offence which he had not committed, and the amiable Charlotte vouchsafed a pardon which she should rather have besought than bestowed.
Then there was a little fond—or rather foolish kissing and hugging; and this farce being concluded, the lady hastened to fulfil her promise relative to the diachylon plaster.
When this operation was likewise ended, Sir Christopher cast a rueful glance into the looking-glass over the mantel; and never did a more miserable wight see reflected a more woefully patched countenance. The wretchedness depicted on that face, apart from the long slips of plaster stuck upon the cheeks, contrasted in a most ludicrous fashion with the absurd splendour of the knight's morning attire; and, to use a common phrase, he wished himself at the devil, as he wended his mournful way to the drawing-room.