“Do, ma’am. Mrs Cutts is a most kind motley woman,” Harry said. “But it isn’t the Back Kitchen, neither,” he added, with a ghastly sigh.
As Lady Agnes never denied her son anything, and fell into all his ways with the fondest acquiescence, she was rewarded by a perfect confidence on young Harry’s part, who never thought to disguise from her a knowledge of the haunts which he frequented; and, on the contrary, brought her home choice anecdotes from the clubs and billiard-rooms, which the simple lady relished, if she did not understand. “My son goes to Spratt’s,” she would say to her confidential friends. “All the young men go to Spratt’s after their balls. It is de rigueur, my dear; and they play billiards as they used to play macao and hazard in Mr. Fox’s time. Yes, my dear father often told me that they sate up always until nine o’clock the next morning with Mr. Fox at Brookes’s, whom I remember at Drummington, when I was a little girl, in a buff waistcoat and black satin small-clothes. My brother Erith never played as a young man, nor sate up late—he had no health for it; but my boy must do as everybody does, you know. Yes, and then he often goes to a place called the Back Kitchen, frequented by all the wits and authors, you know, whom one does not see in society, but whom it is a great privilege and pleasure for Harry to meet, and there he hears the questions of the day discussed; and my dear father often said that it was our duty to encourage literature, and he had hoped to see the late Dr. Johnson at Drummington, only Dr. Johnson died. Yes, and Mr. Sheridan came over, and drank a great deal of wine,—everybody drank a great deal of wine in those days,—and papa’s wine-merchant’s bill was ten times as much as Erith’s is, who gets it as he wants it from Fortnum and Mason’s and doesn’t keep any stock at all.”
“That was an uncommon good dinner we had yesterday, ma’am,” the artful Harry broke out. “Their clear soup’s better than ours. Moufflet will put too much taragon into everything. The supreme de volaille was very good—uncommon, and the sweets were better than Moufflet’s sweets. Did you taste the plombiere, ma’am, and the maraschino jelly? Stunningly good that maraschino jelly!”
Lady Agnes expressed her agreement in these, as in almost all other sentiments of her son, who continued the artful conversation, saying—
“Very handsome house that of the Claverings. Furniture, I should say, got up regardless of expense. Magnificent display of plate, ma’am.” The lady assented to all these propositions.
“Very nice people the Claverings.”
“H’m!” said Lady Agnes.
“I know what you mean. Lady C. ain’t distangy exactly, but she is very good-natured.”
“Oh, very,” mamma said, who was herself one of the most good-natured of women.
“And Sir Francis, he don’t talk much before ladies; but after dinner he comes out uncommon strong, ma’am—a highly agreeable, well-informed man. When will you ask them to dinner? Look out for an early day, ma’am;” and looking into Lady Agnes’s pocket-book, he chose a day only a fortnight hence (an age that fortnight seemed to the young gentleman), when the Claverings were to be invited to Grosvenor-street.