“Where is her ladyship?” said Jim. “I should like to see her.”
“Her ladyship is not at home, sir,” said John, with emphasis.
“Well,” said the imperturbable James, “those blinds will undoubtedly have to go up higher.”
And Jim Lascelles, doubtless to prove to all whom it might concern that he was in the habit of respecting his own opinion, walked up to the window, unloosed the cords, and hauled up the Venetian blinds to their uttermost. Various additional beams of the May sunshine rewarded his action.
“Now,” said Jim, “perhaps we shall be able to get some sort of an idea of Gainsborough at his best.”
We think it is open to doubt whether John had a feeling for art. At least he seemed to evince no desire to obtain an idea of Gainsborough at his best. For he merely turned his back upon Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, and incidentally upon Jim Lascelles, and proceeded in quite the grand manner to shepherd the two sons of labor into the street.
This feat accomplished, John made a formal complaint to his official superior.
“That painting man,” said he, “goes on as if the place belonged to him. I don’t know what her ladyship will say, I’m sure.”
“John,” said that pillar of the Whigs impressively, “if the education of the masses does not prove the ruin of this country, Henry Marchbanks is not my name.”
Miss Perry, in her second-best frock, the modest blue serge, descended the stairs.