Dressed in the Albany in his tightest evening trousers did this idle, rich young fellow; although the question why he could not have performed that action under the roof of his excellent parents at No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, can only be answered on the plain hypothesis that his uncle and aunts and other collaterals had left him a great deal of money to play with.
White waistcoat, of course; buttons mother o’ pearl; tie by Mr. Thomas Ling; pomade by Truefitt for the upper story. Even his man was proud of him. But we grieve to relate that his reception at No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, was not so cordial as it might have been, considering that up to the time of writing the life of this idle, rich young fellow was void of serious blemishes.
He could feel the frost even before he took off the coat with the astrachan collar.
“Ought to keep a stove, Jenkins, in this hall during the winter months.”
But that well-trained servitor looked solemnly down his Wellington nose, because even he could perceive that the temperature that was already up against Master Philip had nothing whatever to do with the state of the British climate.
“Lady Adela and his lordship ’ave been here a quarter of a hower, sir.”
What! twenty past eight. O curst pantomime of Drury! O curst vision in thy chestnut curls, that thou shouldst annihilate time and space for a comparatively recent creation—although a Tory one, happily!
“I look like getting it in the neck properly,” said the vain young fellow for his personal private information; and Mr. Jenkins, that well-trained servitor, who heard him not, would yet have concurred had he happened to do so.
Certainly this surmise was fairly accurate. Adela’s gaze was very cool and level; her method of voice production also enhanced her statuesque appearance. Even her Pa looked the reverse of cordial, but that of course, was rheumatism.
Such a pity he had missed Busoni, said the good old Mater. Dear Adela had enjoyed the Second Rhapsodie of Liszt so much.