Brimstone and the devil!
MY AUNT (freezingly). George Vereker!
UNCLE JERVAS. Wholesome ungentleness.
UNCLE GEORGE (hazarding the suggestion). An occasional black
eye--bloody nose, d'ye see, Julia, healthy bruise or so--
MY AUNT. Mr. Vereker!
UNCLE GEORGE (groping for whisker). What I mean to say is, Julia,
a--ha--hum! (Subsides.)
UNCLE JERVAS. George is exactly right, Julia. Our nephew is well
enough in many ways, I'll admit, but corporeally he is no Vereker; he
fills the eye but meanly--
MY AUNT (in tones of icy gloom). Sir Jervas--explain!
UNCLE JERVAS. Well, my dear Julia, scan him, I beg; regard him with an
observant eye, the eye not of a doting woman but a dispassionate
critic--examine him!
(Here I sank lower in my great chair.)
MY AUNT. If Peregrine is not so--large as your robust self or so burly
as--monstrous George, am I to blame?
MY UNCLE JERVAS. The adjective robust as applied to myself is, I
think, a trifle misplaced. I suggest the word "elegant" instead.
MY AUNT (patient and sighful). What have you to remark, George
Vereker?
UNCLE GEORGE (measuring me with knowing eye). I should say he would
strip devilish--I mean--uncommonly light--
MY AUNT (in murmurous horror). Strip? An odious suggestion! Only
ostlers, pugilists, and such as yourself, George, would stoop to do
such a thing! Oh, monstrous!
UNCLE GEORGE (pathetically). No, no, Julia m'dear, you mistake; to
"strip" is a term o' the "fancy"--milling, d'ye see--fibbing is a
very gentlemanly art, assure you; I went three rounds with the
"Camberwell Chicken" before I--
My AUNT (scornfully).
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