Mr. Ashton, though a reasonably temperate man himself, was not so greatly shocked at these young carousers as we might be. Long usage blunts sensibilities. It was a glorious distinction to be a three-bottle man; the inability to drink a solitary bottle of wine at a sitting was a sort of disqualification for good fellowship; and it was considered a fine thing for a boy of seven to “toss off a glass like a man;” so the genial old gentleman was inclined to allow some latitude for the special occasion. But they had touched him on a tender point. The light mention of his darling daughter’s name roused his blood.
“John Walmsley,” he cried angrily, looking up, “what brings you, a married man, with these young rakes at this hour of the morning?”
“Pray wha-at brought y-you here, old fogey?” hiccoughed Aspinall, answering for the other.
One of the ostlers—Bob, the ex-groom—squeezed between the rollicking fellows to whisper in the ear of Laurence. He was impatiently thrust back with an elbow.
“Tchut! don’t believe it. Old snuff-an’-tuppeny’s fast ’shleep in bed shure sh a gun. I know b-better. I say, you——”
But “old snuff-an’-tuppeny” had turned on his heel, too wise to enter into contention with a set of inebriated boobies, though not proof against the disrespectful epithets of Laurence, or the derisive laughter of his boon companions. His irritation half emptied his snuff-box before he got home, so often he tapped smartly on its golden lid, and so often his finger and thumb travelled between it and his nose with a touch of ruminant displeasure.
Neither he nor Mrs. Ashton was disposed to overlook the fact that Kit Townley and Ned Barret—scapegraces by repute—were of the party, nor that Augusta’s name had been familiarly used in their midst.
“‘Birds of a feather flock together,’” said the lady; “and if Mr. Aspinall’s son associates with that reckless and dishonest Kit Townley, he is a very unfit friend for John Walmsley, and still worse for our dear Augusta.”
“Just so; for a dashing blade with a handsome face, who sports a uniform, talks poetry, and sings sentimental songs, is just the fellow to take a silly girl’s fancy, before she is old enough to think. I know I regret I ever brought him here,” said Mr. Ashton seriously, as Augusta came in the room to breakfast, entering at the door behind her mother’s back.
“Well, William,” observed Mrs. Ashton loftily, her hand on the china coffee-pot, “you can imagine my annoyance when John and Mr. Laurence walked in arm-in-arm last night, after the liberty he had taken in the morning—kissing his hand to our daughter from the public procession in the face of all our friends, as if Augusta had been a flaunting barmaid. I was most indignant!”