“Ma’am!”
“Is Gustavus to be trusted?”
“Trusted, ma’am!” cried Mr. Ferdinand, looking at Gustavus, who had assumed an expression of pale and pathetic dignity. “Trusted—a London footman! Oh, ma’am!”
His voice failed. He choked and began to rummage in the pocket of his black tail coat for his perfumed handkerchief.
“T’st, t’st! I mean his arms,” said Mrs. Merillia, patting her delicate hands quickly on the chair. “Can he carry me?”
The countenance of Mr. Ferdinand cleared, while Gustavus eagerly extended his right arm, bent it sharply, and allowed his magnificent biceps to rise up in sudden majesty. Mrs. Merillia was reassured.
“Hoist me to the drawin’-room, then,” she said. “Hennessey, will you walk behind?”
The procession was formed, and the little old lady proceeded by a succession of jerks to the upper floor, her silk gown rustling against the balusters, and her tiny feet dangling loosely in mid-air, while her long and elegant head nodded each time Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus pranced carefully sideways to a higher step. The Prophet followed solicitously behind, with hands outstretched to check any dangerous recoil. His face was very grave, but not entirely unhappy.
“Set me down by the fire,” said Mrs. Merillia, when she found herself being smoothly propelled through the atmosphere of the drawing-room.
The menials obeyed with breathless assiduity.