The Last Chronicle of Barset [124]
out of the great bill of fare provided. I always expect some gentleman to do that for me. Mr Crosbie, you know, only lived with his wife for one month.'
'So I've been told.'
'And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He doesn't look that sort of man, does he?'
'Well;--no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do you mean?'
'Why, such a regular Bluebeard! Of course you know how he treated another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of it--with a broken heart; absolutely died; and there he is, indifferent as possible;--and would treat me in the same way tomorrow if I would let him.'
Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. 'But you have skipped the pate?' said she, with energy.
'Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are much more fit to do it.' And she did choose his dinner for him.
They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies and gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr Musselboro was opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs Van Siever, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from the nature of the wiggeries she wore. She had not only a false front, but long false curls, as to which it cannot be conceived that she would suppose that anyone would be ignorant as to their falseness. She was very thin, too, and very small, and putting aside her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed to know Mr Musselboro very well, for she called him by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a clerk in her husband's office.
'Why doesn't What's-his-name have real silver forks?' she said to him. Now Mrs What's-his-name--Mrs Dobbs Broughton we will call her--was sitting on the other side of Mr Musselboro, between him and Mr Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr Musselboro found it rather hard to answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware that other questions would follow.
'What's the use?' said Mr Musselboro. 'Everybody has these plated things now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead?'
'Everybody doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capital isn't lying dead as long as people know that you've got it.'
Before answering this Mr Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. 'You won't find that there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton,' he said.
'I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than anywhere else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the young man painted?'
'What, Mrs Dobbs Broughton's portrait?'
'You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with the three naked women?' Mr Musselboro glanced around with one eye, and felt sure that Mrs Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But the old woman was determined to have an answer. 'How much did he give for it, Musselboro?'
'Six hundred pounds, I believe,' said Mr Musselboro, looking straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the subject with perfect indifference.
'Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And yet he hasn't got silver spoons. How things are changed! Tell me, Musselboro, who was that young man who came in with the painter?'
Mr Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs Dobbs Broughton. 'A Mr John Eames, Mrs Van Siever,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton, whispering across the front of Mr Musselboro. 'He is private secretary to Lord--Lord--Lord I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. And he had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord --Lord--Lord somebody else.'
'All among the lords,
'So I've been told.'
'And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He doesn't look that sort of man, does he?'
'Well;--no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do you mean?'
'Why, such a regular Bluebeard! Of course you know how he treated another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of it--with a broken heart; absolutely died; and there he is, indifferent as possible;--and would treat me in the same way tomorrow if I would let him.'
Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. 'But you have skipped the pate?' said she, with energy.
'Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are much more fit to do it.' And she did choose his dinner for him.
They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies and gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr Musselboro was opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs Van Siever, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from the nature of the wiggeries she wore. She had not only a false front, but long false curls, as to which it cannot be conceived that she would suppose that anyone would be ignorant as to their falseness. She was very thin, too, and very small, and putting aside her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed to know Mr Musselboro very well, for she called him by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a clerk in her husband's office.
'Why doesn't What's-his-name have real silver forks?' she said to him. Now Mrs What's-his-name--Mrs Dobbs Broughton we will call her--was sitting on the other side of Mr Musselboro, between him and Mr Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr Musselboro found it rather hard to answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware that other questions would follow.
'What's the use?' said Mr Musselboro. 'Everybody has these plated things now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead?'
'Everybody doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capital isn't lying dead as long as people know that you've got it.'
Before answering this Mr Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. 'You won't find that there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton,' he said.
'I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than anywhere else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the young man painted?'
'What, Mrs Dobbs Broughton's portrait?'
'You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with the three naked women?' Mr Musselboro glanced around with one eye, and felt sure that Mrs Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But the old woman was determined to have an answer. 'How much did he give for it, Musselboro?'
'Six hundred pounds, I believe,' said Mr Musselboro, looking straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the subject with perfect indifference.
'Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And yet he hasn't got silver spoons. How things are changed! Tell me, Musselboro, who was that young man who came in with the painter?'
Mr Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs Dobbs Broughton. 'A Mr John Eames, Mrs Van Siever,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton, whispering across the front of Mr Musselboro. 'He is private secretary to Lord--Lord--Lord I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. And he had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord --Lord--Lord somebody else.'
'All among the lords,