and leaning up against the chimney-piece, and looking rather gray about the gills.
Should it make a bolt, or should it stay and grapple with the music? The pusillanimity of the former course, tempting no doubt to a weak resolution, would involve death and damnation; but the heroism of the latter required all that could be mustered by the playing fields of Eton and Christ Church. But while the unhappy inhabitant of the Braided Morning Coat was surrendered to this problem, the stern, uncompromising eye of Mother decided the question.
"Phil-ipp!"
"Ma-ter!" And then, of course, the Twin Brethren called out the reserves. "Mrs. Cathcart—My Mother."
The bow of Grosvenor Square, No. 88, the corner house, was aloof decidedly; the bow of the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall was so full of conscious power and accumulated dignity that it was really quite gracious.
"Pray be seated, Lady Shelmerdine."
Beautiful elocution on the part of the goddaughter of Edward Bean.
Lady Shelmerdine seated herself rather superbly, and opened fire with her tortoise-shell folders.
The cap-with-lace-that-had-been-worn-by-Siddons touched the electric button at its elbow.
