He turned towards a little popinjay man who was fluttering about the room in a laced coat, and powdered periwig which hung so full about his face that it was difficult to distinguish any feature beyond a thin, prominent nose.
"You should know one another. For if you remember, Morrice, it was Culverton you robbed of Ph[oe]be."
"Ph[oe]be?" simpered Lord Culverton. "I remember no Ph[oe]be. But in truth the pretty creatures pester one so impertinently that burn me if I don't jumble up their names. What was she like, Mr. Buckler?"
"She was piebald," said I gravely, "and needed cudgelling before she would walk."
"And Morrice killed her," added Elmscott, with a laugh.
"Then he did very well to kill her, strike me speechless! But there must be some mistake. I have met many women who needed cudgelling before they would walk, but never one that was piebald."
Elmscott explained the matter to him, and then, with some timidity, I began to inquire concerning the Countess Lukstein.
"What! bitten already?" cried my cousin. "Faith, I knew not I had so smart a hand for description."
"The most rapturous female, pink me!" broke in Lord Culverton. "She is but newly come to London, and hath the town at her feet already. Egad! I'm half-soused in love myself, split my windpipe!" and he flicked a speck of powder from his velvet coat, and carefully arranged the curls of his periwig. "The most provoking creature!" he went on. "A widow without a widow's on-coming disposition."
"Ay, but she hath discarded the weeds," said Elmscott
"She is a widow none the less. And yet breathe but one word of tender adoration in her ear, and she strikes you dumb, O Lard! with the most supercilious eyebrow. However, time may do much with the obstinate dear--time, a tolerable phrase, and a _je ne sçay quoi_ in one's person and conversation." He pointed a skinny leg before the mirror, and languished with a ludicrous extravagance at his own reflection.
I had much ado to restrain myself from laughing, the more especially when Elmscott cried, with a wink at me:
"Oh, if you have entered the lists, the rest of us may creep out with as little ignominy as we can. They say that every pretty woman has a devil at her elbow, and 'tis most true, so long as Culverton lives."