Mr. Smirke was magnificently dressed, and as he turned out his toes he showed a pair of elegant open-worked silk stockings and glossy pumps. His white cravat was arranged in a splendid stiff tie, and his gold shirt studs shone on his spotless linen. His hair was curled round his fair temples. Had he borrowed Madame Fribsby's irons to give that curly grace? His white cambric pocket handkerchief was scented with the most delicious Eau-de-Cologne.
"O gracilis puer,"—cried the doctor.—"Whither are you bound? I wanted you to come home to dinner."
"I am engaged to dine at—at Fairoaks," said Mr. Smirke, blushing faintly and whisking the scented pocket-handkerchief, and his pony being in waiting, he mounted and rode away simpering down the street. No accident befell him that day, and he arrived with his tie in the very best order at Mrs. Pendennis's house.