ABASEMENT OF MR. HOOPDRIVER
XXXIV
"Good morning, Madam," said Hoopdriver, as Jessie came into the breakfast room of the Golden Pheasant on Monday morning, and he smiled, bowed, rubbed his hands together, and pulled out a chair for her and rubbed his hands again.
She stopped abruptly, with a puzzled expression on her face. "Where have I seen that before?" she said.
"The chair?" said Hoopdriver, flushing.
"No—the attitude."
She came forward and shook hands with him, looking the while curiously into his face. "And—Madam?"
"It's a habit," said Mr. Hoopdriver, guiltily. "A bad habit. Calling ladies Madam. You must put it down to our colonial roughness. Out there—up country—y'know—the ladies—so rare—we call 'em all Madam."
"You have some funny habits, brother Chris," said Jessie. "Before you sell your diamond shares and go into society, as you say, and stand for Parliament—What a fine thing it is to be a man!—you must cure yourself. That habit of bowing as you do, and rubbing your hands, and looking expectant."
"It's a habit."
"I know. But I don't think it a good one. You don't mind my telling you?"
"Not a bit. I'm grateful."
"I'm blessed or afflicted with a trick of observation," said Jessie, looking at the breakfast table. Mr. Hoopdriver put his hand to his moustache and then,
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