The exquisite smiled amiably upon all their efforts—adopting his distinguished position as a matter of course.
Thus merrily passed the first fortnight of Smythje’s sojourn in Jamaica.
On a pleasant morning near the end of this fortnight, in one of the largest bed-chambers of Mount Welcome house—that consecrated to the reception of distinguished strangers—Mr Smythje might have been seen in front of his mirror. He was engaged in the occupation of dressing himself—or, to speak more correctly, permitting himself to be dressed by his valet de chambre.
In the extensive wardrobe of the London exquisite there were dresses for all purposes and every occasion: suits for morning, dinner, and evening; one for riding, and one for driving; a shooting dress, and one for the nobler sport of the chasse au cheval; a dress for boating, à la matelot; and a grand costume de bal.
On the occasion in question, Mr Smythje’s august person was being enveloped in his shooting dress; and, although a West India sportsman or an English squire would have smiled derisively at such a “rig,” the Cockney regarded it with complacency as being “just the thing.”
It consisted of a French tunic-shaped coatee of green silk velvet, trimmed with fur; a helmet-shaped hunting-cap to match; and a purple waistcoat underneath, embroidered with cord of gold bullion.
Instead of breeches and top-boots, Mr Smythje fancied he had improved upon the costume, by encasing his limbs in long trousers. These were of dressed fawn-skin, of a straw colour, and soft as the finest chamois leather. They fitted tightly around the legs, notwithstanding that the wearer was rather deficient in that quarter. Moreover, they were strapped at the bottoms, over a pair of brightly-shining lacquered boots—another error at which a true sportsman would have smiled.
Mr Smythje, however, was well satisfied with the style of his dress: as appeared from the conversation carried on between him and his valet Thoms, while the latter was making him ready for the field.
“’Pon honaw! a demmed becoming costume!” exclaimed he, surveying himself from head to foot in the mirror. “Dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?”
“Pe Cod! it’s all that, yer honner!” replied Thoms, with just enough of an Irish accent to show that he was a Welshman.