Brum. Shoes! I thought they were slippers!
Fother. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless?
Brum. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or shoes?
Isid. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London.
Brum. Right, Isidore—so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his knife out of his mouth.
Fother. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to become old Armand's wife next week.
Brum. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on Armand's side of the question.
Fother. And this circumstance?
Brum. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing that serves him for a waistcoat—an instrument that, he says, has been in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you are dressed in execrable taste—all black and white, like a magpie. Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me—but then it is a coat—while that thing you wear—I really don't know what we can call it.
Fother. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.