MY AUNT (in tones of icy gloom). Sir Jervas—explain!
UNCLE JERVAS. Well, my dear Julia, scan him, I beg; regard him with an observant eye, the eye not of a doting woman but a dispassionate critic—examine him!
(Here I sank lower in my great chair.)
MY AUNT. If Peregrine is not so—large as your robust self or so burly as—monstrous George, am I to blame?
MY UNCLE JERVAS. The adjective robust as applied to myself is, I think, a trifle misplaced. I suggest the word "elegant" instead.
MY AUNT (patient and sighful). What have you to remark, George
Vereker?
UNCLE GEORGE (measuring me with knowing eye). I should say he would strip devilish—I mean—uncommonly light—
MY AUNT (in murmurous horror). Strip? An odious suggestion! Only ostlers, pugilists, and such as yourself, George, would stoop to do such a thing! Oh, monstrous!
UNCLE GEORGE (pathetically). No, no, Julia m'dear, you mistake; to "strip" is a term o' the "fancy"—milling, d'ye see—fibbing is a very gentlemanly art, assure you; I went three rounds with the "Camberwell Chicken" before I—
My AUNT (scornfully). Have done with your chickens, sir—