“Charming thing!” And the uneasy Hodmadod turns in his saddle to look at Jenny. “A child of nature!” “You think so?” asks Miss Candituft, with a searching emphasis, that somehow goes through the baronet. Hodmadod finds himself put upon his proofs; and in his usual logical manner, hastily sets his meaning in its clearest, strongest light. “Quite a child of nature. That is, you know, when I say a child of nature, why I mean, of course, a—a perfect kitten.” “Of course; that is evident,” says Miss Candituft, with her large, cold eyes in the brain of the baronet. Defenceless man! He feels his exposed condition—and touching his hat, speeds past the carriage. Well, we do not yet think him safe. Miss Candituft pursues him with such a look that, even now, we would not insure him from the life-long consequences of her resolution. However, let him flutter his hour while he may. We shall see. [Pg 57] [Pg 57] On either side boys and girls set up so loud, so shrill a welcome, it is plain they have caught sight of some bit of bravery—some splendour that hitherto is the chief glory of the show. Quick and perceptive is the wit of childhood; and—they know it—the little ones have not spent their best cheer without good judgment. For look at that magnificent equipage. Four glorious horses, wearing the most superb caparison, with—it would seem—a full sense of its costliness, for everywhere it is set and bossed with precious silver—four horses, dancing—as though, like immortal steeds, they pawed the empyrean, not the Queen’s highway—draw a sky-blue phaeton. There is another shout, as the vehicle turns the corner; and horses, and postilions, and carriage and company, are revealed at full. The horses seem to toss their heads, as with a sense of beauty, coquetting with the public approbation; and the postilions, in their gold-coloured satin jackets, have an assured and knowing look, and very proud of their horse-flesh, pat the beasts, as though blood was immortal, and there was not a dog in the world. And who are the company who sit in the phaeton, drinking in, as at every pore of the skin, the looks of wonder and admiration that from all sides are cast upon them? It is difficult—we feel the task—very difficult to obtain belief for the assertion; nevertheless, as faithful chroniclers, we must at any peril make it. The ladies are Mrs. Jericho and her two daughters, Miss Monica and Miss Agatha Pennibacker; the gentleman is Mr. Solomon Jericho.
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