"Just done breakfast I see—how do?" said Mr. Foker, popping in his little funny head.
"Get out you funny little man," cried Miss Fotheringay.
"You mean come in," answered the other.—"Here we are!" and entering the room he folded his arms and began twirling his head round and round with immense rapidity, like Harlequin in the Pantomime when he first issues from his cocoon or envelope. Miss Fotheringay laughed with all her heart: a wink of Foker's would set her off laughing, when the bitterest joke Bows ever made could not get a smile from her, or the finest of poor Pen's speeches would only puzzle her. At the end of the harlequinade he sank down on one knee and kissed her hand. "You're the drollest little man," she said, and gave him a great good-humored slap. Pen used to tremble as he kissed her hand. Pen would have died of a slap.
These preliminaries over, the three began to talk; Mr. Foker amused his companions by recounting to them the scene which he had just witnessed of the discomfiture of Mr. Garbetts, by which they learned, for the first time, how far the general had carried his wrath against Major Pendennis. Foker spoke strongly in favor of the major's character for veracity and honor, and described him as a tip-top swell, moving in the upper circle of society, who would never submit to any deceit—much more to deceive such a charming young woman as Miss Foth.
He touched delicately upon the delicate marriage question, though he couldn't help showing that he held Pen rather cheap. In fact, he had a perhaps just contempt for Mr. Pen's high flown sentimentality; his own weakness, as he thought, not lying that way. "I knew it wouldn't do, Miss Foth," said he, nodding his little head. "Couldn't do.—Didn't like to put my hand into the bag, but knew it couldn't do. He's too young for you: too green: a deal too green: and he turns out to be poor as Job. Can't have him at no price, can she, Mr. Bo?"
"Indeed he's a nice poor boy," said the Fotheringay, rather sadly.
"Poor little beggar," said Bows, with his hands in his pockets, and stealing up a queer look at Miss Fotheringay. Perhaps he thought and wondered at the way in which women play with men, and coax them and win them and drop them.
But Mr. Bows had not the least objection to acknowledge that he thought Miss Fotheringay was perfectly right in giving up Mr. Arthur Pendennis, and that in his idea the match was always an absurd one: and Miss Costigan owned that she thought so herself, only she couldn't send away two thousand a year. "It all comes of believing papa's silly stories," she said; "faith, I'll choose for meself another time"—and very likely the large image of Lieutenant Sir Derby Oaks entered into her mind at that instant.
After praising Major Pendennis, whom Miss Costigan declared to be a proper gentleman entirely, smelling of lavender, and as neat as a pin—and who was pronounced by Mr. Bows to be the right sort of fellow, though rather too much of an old buck, Mr. Foker suddenly bethought him to ask the pair to come and meet the major that very evening at dinner at his apartment at the George. "He agreed to dine with me, and I think after the—after the little shindy this morning, in which I must say the general was wrong, it would look kind, you know.—I know the major fell in love with you Miss Foth: he said so."
"So she may be Mrs. Pendennis still," Bows said, with a sneer—"No thank you, Mr. F.—I've dined."