“Quite ready, dearest,” was the reply in the most submissive of tones, as he laid his book down upon the counter and disclosed to my astonished view the features of my old friend John Standish Sawyer.
Our greeting was of the most cordial. I was presented in due form to the bride, who vouchsafed me so sweet a smile as made me wonder less than ever at Mr. Sawyer’s subjugation. After putting her into the hired brougham that was in waiting for them, he lingered for a moment to tell me of his late-won happiness. “The horses go up to-day,” said he, “and I cannot affirm that I am sorry for it. With such an attraction at home, a man don’t want to go out hunting. I don’t think somehow I shall ever care to ride to hounds again!”
As I turned back into the shop, the book my friend had been studying so assiduously lay upon the counter. I took it up with a pardonable curiosity. It was the “Life of Thomas Assheton Smith, Esq.”
I shall expect to hear of Sawyer’s buying two or three hunters yet, before November.
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“I HOPE you feel your arm a little easier, sir, this evening?” says Miss Lushington, reappearing in her own peculiar department, fresh and blooming from the revision of her toilet, which usually takes place about seven P.M. Miss Lushington’s habits are peculiarly regular and methodical; her attractions of a dazzling, not to say gaudy, description; she is a thorough woman of business, if indeed such a designation be not a contradiction in terms; but when she _does_ take a day’s pleasure, there are few ladies who can produce a more satisfactory effect than Miss L.
I raise my eyes to reply with becoming gratitude. The object on which they rest is no everyday sight—a full-bodied, fresh-coloured, buxom damsel, with shining hair dark and lustrous as ebony, suggestive of no small expenditure in pomatum; a pair of light-grey eyes, restless and vivacious, called black by courtesy, because fringed with lashes of jet, and surmounted by arching eyebrows of the same colour, swarthy and strong of growth: a straight well-cut nose; a wide mouth, with red lips and white teeth, large, regular, and wholesome; not forgetting those captivating manners which spring from habitual good-humour and perfect self-possession in mixed society, backed by a pair of ear-rings that would have looked _rich_ even on the Queen of Sheba. All this I take in at a glance for the twentieth time, and catch myself confessing, also for the twentieth time, that the barmaid of the Haycock Hotel and Posting-house, Soakington, is the most fascinating, as doubtless she is the most fastidious of her sex.
