“The man in the corner there, with the white silk wrapper over his mouth, and his hat down to his eyebrows.”
Mrs. Sowler looked round for a moment—to make sure that Jervy’s man and her man were one and the same.
“Farnaby?” she muttered to herself, in the tone of a person who heard the name for the first time. She considered a little, and leaning across Jervy, addressed herself to his companion. “My dear,” she whispered, “did that gentleman ever go by the name of Morgan, and have his letters addressed to the George and Dragon, in Tooley-street?”
Phoebe lifted her eyebrows with a look of contemptuous surprise, which was an answer in itself. “Fancy the great Mr. Farnaby going by an assumed name, and having his letters addressed to a public-house!” she said to Jervy.
Mrs. Sowler asked no more questions. She relapsed into muttering to herself, under her breath. “His whiskers have turned gray, to be sure—but I know his eyes again; I’ll take my oath to it, there’s no mistaking his eyes!” She suddenly appealed to Jervy. “Is Mr. Farnaby rich?” she asked.
“Rolling in riches!” was the answer.
“Where does he live?”
Jervy was cautious how he replied to that; he consulted Phoebe. “Shall I tell her?”
Phoebe answered petulantly, “I’m turned out of the house; I don’t care what you tell her!”
Jervy again addressed the old woman, still keeping his information in reserve. “Why do you want to know where he lives?”