To save any difficulty about this, we sent for Sims and his ancient fly, and putting up the windows, went in state to the dinner at Prince’s Mansion.
My uncle had been positive and almost snappish, in asserting his knowledge of the world; and I had given him credit on the strength of that for knowing almost everything. But now he showed signs of some anxiety and doubt, as we passed through the gate at the beginning of the drive, and he glanced at his nails, which were of a steady brown, and his knuckles, which resembled door-knobs.
“There won’t be any ladies, of course,” he said, “besides Mrs. Sam and Aunt Parslow. Just look to my collar, this side, Kit. It seems to cut uncommon hard.”
“Ladies?” I replied; “why, there’ll be a dozen, according to what Sam said yesterday. There are three Miss Chalkers, Sally’s aunts, and three Miss Kempes, her cousins, and Mrs. Spry from Tonbridge Wells, and three or four racing ladies, and a very fashionable one, and very beautiful I believe, whose name is Lady Kickloose. So you see your velvet waistcoat won’t be wasted, Uncle Corny.”
“If I had known this, I would have stopped at home. Why I shall have one on each arm! I like people to talk with that I know all about. By-the-bye, I forget—which arm is considered the most polite to walk with?”
“It does not matter much. But you will do very well, if you don’t begin to tell any of your long stories. People won’t have them now. All they care for is what they call general conversation.”
“If I am not allowed to tell my old stories,” my uncle replied indignantly, “all I can do is to hold my tongue. What is the good of bits and splinters? You can’t make anybody laugh like that. You must take your time, and let them think what’s coming. It’s just the same as carrying a pint of beer. If you are jogged on the elbow all the froth runs over. I give a man his time, and I like to have my own.”
“To be sure, and they’ll be glad enough to listen to you, when they have had their own talk out. But one thing I want you to do particularly. You are so sharp in seeing everything. You observe so much better than I do.”
“Well, you can’t expect to be equal to me yet. Though you are not a fool, Kit; not half so much a fool as some who think they are mighty clever. What is it you want me to notice, my boy?”
“Why, I want you to notice particularly how Sally behaves to her husband. To hear him talk, one would suppose that he had got a perfect jewel—a model of a wife that worships him, and would crawl on her knees to please him. In fact, you would think she was fifty times the wonder that my Kitty was. But from what I know of Sally Chalker, I don’t believe a word of it.”