‘Let me have it at once. Always bring it to me at once. Are there any handsome ones this time?’
‘They are much the same class of female as usual, I think, my lord,’ said Tipman, fetching the paper and laying it before him.
‘Yes, they are,’ said the viscount, leaning back and scrutinizing the faces of the women one by one, and talking softly to himself in a way that had grown upon him as his age increased. ‘Yet they are very well: that one with her shoulder turned is pure and charming—the brown-haired one will pass. All very harmless and innocent, but without character; no soul, or inspiration, or eloquence of eye. What an eye was hers! There is not a girl among them so beautiful. . . . Tipman! Come and take it away. I don’t think I will subscribe to these papers any longer—how long have I subscribed? Never mind—I take no interest in these things, and I suppose I must give them up. What white article is that I see on the floor yonder?’
‘I can see nothing, my lord.’
‘Yes, yes, you can. At the other end of the room. It is a white handkerchief. Bring it to me.’
‘I beg pardon, my lord, but I cannot see any white handkerchief. Whereabouts does your lordship mean?’
‘There in the corner. If it is not a handkerchief, what is it? Walk along till you come to it—that is it; now a little further—now your foot is against it.’
‘O that—it is not anything. It is the light reflected against the skirting, so that it looks like a white patch of something—that is all.’
‘H’m-hm. My eyes—how weak they are! I am getting old, that’s what it is: I am an old man.’
‘O no, my lord.’