I cocked my hat as I strolled past the counter with a slow and indolent step; and stopped, when on the pavement, full in the sight of Mr. Curling, to light a cigar, though I should have preferred a pipe. I then got into the phaeton, and was driven to Grove End.
My aunt received me in the most gracious manner. The first question she asked me was, if I had breakfasted: and, on my replying in the affirmative, eagerly questioned me about my lodgings. Was I quite sure I was comfortable, she wanted to know; because, if I was not, there was a delightful bed-room, entirely at my service, at the back of the house, and she would give orders at once for it to be got ready. I hope I showed her that my gratitude was equal to her kindness. Indeed I was almost embarrassed by the extraordinary civilities I had met with; and, though I believe there was not another man in England, at that time, who had a better opinion of himself than I had, yet I must do myself the justice to declare that I did not conscientiously believe I deserved the kindness I received.
Presently the door opened and in came Conny. She gave me her hand, which I raised to my lips.
“That is a German fashion,” said I, rather dismayed by her extravagant blush.
“Is it?” she answered, turning her head aside and looking half angry and half pleased. “I thought it wasn’t English.”
“The French kiss each other on both cheeks, don’t they?” inquired my aunt with naïve interest.
“The men do, and I also believe it is customary among lovers. But I fancy that the custom does not prevail amongst the married folks, from the story that is told of a Frenchman, who, hearing that a friend of his had kissed his wife, cried ‘Quoi! sans y etre obligé!’”
You see, I meant to mingle sarcasm with humour, and to shine as a wit; but to crack a joke with my aunt was like pulling a cracker at a supper-table with your partner, who gets only a piece of the paper, and leaves the sweetmeat and the motto with you.
“Dear me!” said she. “Now I should have thought such a custom would have been entirely confined to the married people.”
I looked at Conny. How was she dressed? Now you want to puzzle me. Was it black silk? I believe it was. Whatever the material, it was dark enough to set off the transporting whiteness of her throat, and to make the curl that gleamed down her back shine (to use the language of an imitator of Ossian) like the lustrous wake of a meteor upon the midnight sky. What pearly teeth! What a surprisingly dainty complexion! Where did this girl learn to dress her hair? Never did I see hair so becomingly dressed. Is she to be my heroine? Nous verrons; but I rather fear, if she is to be my heroine, that hair of hers won’t serve any dramatic exigencies. How could it flow, as all heroines’ gold-coloured hair ought to flow, at an instant’s notice, in a bright cloud over a pillar of a man’s throat, if it is dressed so well and firmly? All we dare hope is that we shall meet with no pillars (columns I think they call them) for Conny’s hair to flow over. But if a column or a pillar of a throat will interfere, in spite of our earnest remonstrances, let us at least trust that the hair-pins will do their duty, and maintain the respectability of passion by holding the pads and puffs and frizettes in their proper places.