“I will walk, too,” said Warrington. And they descended the stairs, stopping, however, at Pen’s chambers, which, as the reader has been informed, were now on the lower story.
Here Pen began sprinkling himself with eau-de-Cologne, and carefully scenting his hair and whiskers with that odoriferous water.
“What is the matter? You’ve not been smoking. Is it my pipe that has poisoned you?” growled Warrington.
“I am going to call upon some women,” said Pen. “I’m—I’m going to dine with ’em. They are passing through town, and are at an hotel in Jermyn Street.”
Warrington looked with good-natured interest at the young fellow dandifying himself up to a pitch of completeness; and appearing at length in a gorgeous shirt-front and neckcloth, fresh gloves, and glistening boots. George had a pair of thick high-lows, and his old shirt was torn about the breast, and ragged at the collar, where his blue beard had worn it.
“Well, young un,” said he, simply, “I like you to be a buck; somehow. When I walk about with you, it is as if I had a rose in my button-hole. And you are still affable. I don’t think there is any young fellow in the Temple turns out like you; and I don’t believe you were ever ashamed of walking with me yet.”
“Don’t laugh at me, George.” said Pen.
“I say, Pen,” continued the other, sadly, “if you write—if you write to Laura, I wish you would say ‘God bless her’ from me.”
Pen blushed; and then looked at Warrington; and then—and then burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughing.
“I’m going to dine with her,” he said. “I brought her and Lady Rockminster up from the country to-day—made two days of it—slept last night at Bath—I say, George, come and dine, too. I may ask any one I please, and the old lady is constantly talking about you.”