Smith.
The person addressed answered by a most polite smile and bow, and assured
her that he had not that honour; while the other he-he'ed, evidently a
little flattered by the mistake, and then uttered in a tremendous voice
these words:
"I have nothing for you, my good woman--go. Mr. Elliot! how did you come to
allow these people to get into the establishment?"
"My name is Locke, sir, and I was to bring my son here this morning."
"Oh--ah!--Mr. Elliot, see to these persons. As I was saying, my lard,
the crimson velvet suit, about thirty-five guineas. By-the-by, that coat
ours? I thought so--idea grand and light--masses well broken--very fine
chiaroscuro about the whole--an aristocratic wrinkle just above the
hips--which I flatter myself no one but myself and my friend Mr. Cooke
really do understand. The vapid smoothness of the door dummy, my lard,
should be confined to the regions of the Strand. Mr. Elliot, where are you?
Just be so good as to show his lardship that lovely new thing in drab and
_blue fonce_. Ah! your lardship can't wait.--Now, my good woman, is this
the young man?"
"Yes," said my mother: "and--and--God deal so with you, sir, as you deal
with the widow and the orphan.
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