I was yet engaged on this most critical examination of my person when
I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the flagged terrace
beneath my open window and the voices of my two uncles as they passed
slowly to and fro, each word of their conversation very plain to hear
upon the warm, still air. Honour should have compelled me to close my
ears or the lattice; had I done so, how different might this history
have been, how utterly different my career. As it was, attracted by
the sound of my own name, I turned from contemplation of my person
and, coming to the window, leaned out again.
"Poor Peregrine," said my uncle George for the second time.
"Why the pity, George? Curse and confound it, wherefore the pity? Our
youth is a perfect ass, an infernal young fish, a puppy-dog--pah!"
"Aye, but," quoth my uncle George (and I could distinguish the faint
jingle of his spurs), "we roasted him devilishly to-night between us,
Jervas, and never a word out o' the lad--"
"Egad, Julia did the talking for him--"
"Ha, yes--dooce take me, she did so!" exclaimed uncle George. "What an
amazingly magnificent creature she is--"
"And did ye mark our youth's cool insolence, his disdainful airs--the
cock of his supercilious nose--curst young puppy!"
"Most glorious eyes in Christendom," continued my uncle George,
"always make me feel so dooced--er--so curst humble--no, humble's not
quite the word; what I do mean is--"
"Fatuous, George?" suggested Uncle Jervas a trifle impatiently.
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