Punch: Punch (76.1879)

Mabch 29, 1879.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 143

miles away. These two last have arrived only a few hours before
myself, and they are leaving to-morrow. Mosthyn Dickie pos-
sesses, I have always heard, immense influence somewhere—where,
I do not know ; hut within the first few minutes of our meeting in
the drawing-room Mr. Denson has informed me, more or less con-
fidentially, that he is looking out for something for his boy,—I find
he is always "looking out for something for his boy,"—and that
Mosthyn Dickie has promised to do all he can for him ; " And," he
adds mysteriously, as though I were, of course, in the secret, " you
know he can do somethinq in a certain quarter." Here he waggles
his hands, and nods his head at me like one of the German figures
on the top of a bon-bon box. Being evidently supposed to know all
about it, I nod and waggle back again, completing the resemblance,
on my part, to the bon-bon box figure by observing a discreet silence.

Mr. Denson goes on to inform me, quite gratuitously, that his boy
has had an excellent education, and I catch myself replying,
"Indeed!" in a surprised tone, which implies that I should not
have gathered the fact from the youth's manner and bearing.
" He was at Eton," says his father, proudly.
"Near Eton," interposes his son, sullenly, and with marked
emphasis.

"Well," his father resumes, a trifle abashed, but maintaining a
smiling countenance, "at a most excellent school near Eton, where
they pursue the Eton system, and have matches like the Eton boys,
and go on the Eton grounds, and so one really may say he was at
Eton."

Of course I am ready to admit he may say anything, but I merely
bow politely, and observe, " Yes, naturally," which seems to chime
in quite pleasantly with Mr. Denson's notions.

" Then," he continues, finding he has got a listener, " he went to

a private tutor's, and then he went abroad-"

" Onlv Boulogne," interposes the lad, surlily.
" Well," returns his father, deprecating tne interruption, "that
is abroad."

"I don't call it so," mutters the boy, sulkily, "it's regular
English."

"But it's in France," answers his father, triumphantly, which
statement even his son, whose mission is clearly to gainsay and
contradict his parent on every possible occasion, is compelled to
allow as being geographically true.

" He has studied for several examinations, but I have come to the
conclusion that business is the best thing for him," says Mr. Denson,
Senior, winding up the subject somewhat abruptly, it having possibly
occurred to him that I am about the last person likely to be able to
forward his views as to his son's career in this particular line.

The lad is evidently favourable to any scheme not involving an
examination. He seems to be scanning me furtively, as though sus-
picious of my being an Examiner, in disguise, ready to tackle him
with a poser at a moment's notice. On being introduced to me,
formally, he shakes hands, as though he had not forgotten the time
when he used to hold out his palm for the cane, and, after with-
drawing it as rapidly as possible, he stands swaving about, scruti-
nising the carpet, as if to discover some means oi slipping suddenly
through a hole in the pattern, and so escaping all chance of being
tackled with posers. Mrs. Bresein comes to our relief. She apolo-
gises for being so late, and wonders if Papa is aware of the second
bell having been rung.

At this moment Papa himself—Mosthyn Dickie—enters in a fuss
and a flurry.

"They never told me," (he stands at the door declaring indig-
nantly)-—" they never told me. Not a soul ever came to tell me.
My dear fellow," (this to Mr. Denson, but addressed to us all as we
stand in a semicircle), " I keep a houseful of servants, and not one
of them can come and tell me that the dinner is ready ! " Then he
adds, despairingly, " I don't know what to do! They're all
alike ! " And, as usual, he throws up his hands, as if life were no
longer worth living, and that, all things considered, the best thing
to be done is to go to bed and have no dinner.

Mrs. Breslin reminds him that the bells rang as usual; but as he
replies to this that he didn't hear them as usual, no one ventures to
make any further observation.

The waiting staff consists of a butler and two servants. The table
is arranged perfectly. But, somehow or another, with Mosthyn
Dickie nothing is right.
After grace he criticises the menu. That's all wrong.
" I told that stupid woman "—he is speaking of the cook—" I told
her not to give us a fricandeau, and she does ! I don't know what
to do. I can't get what I want! Ah, well, well! " and he tucks
his napkin under his chin and takes a spoonful of soup, then pauses,
looks round the table, and asks Mr. McAnister if he doesn't taste
anything curious about the soup ?

''No," Mr. McAnister just finds time to gasp, as he is working
hard with his spoon. If there is anything seriously wrong with the
soup, it's too late for Mr. McAnister now; his doom is sealed.

We all pronounce it excellent. Upon which Mosthyn Dickie—
who is really highly pleased with our verdict, and who would

DESCENDING FROM THE GENERAL TO
THE PARTICULAR.

Young Lady (who has never travelled by this Line before). "Do you
go to Kew Gardens?"

Booking-ClerTc. "Sometimes on a Sunday, Miss, on a Summer's
Aftef.noon ! "

FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE.

? Being a Brief Record of a few Winter-seasonable Visits to certain

Country Houses.

VISIT THE THIRD.—CHAPTER XVII.

Madame—Guests—Boy—Conversation—Dinner—Grumble Again—

Pleasure.

Madame de Breslin is a quiet, elegant lady, above the middle
height. Perhaps the idea arises in my mind from Mrs. Pound's
story, but I fancy I remark a shadow of melancholy that rests, from
time to time, on her handsome features until it is chased away by one
of the sweetest and brightest smiles it has ever been my lot to see on
the face of woman.

Our company to-night consists of Mosthyn Dickie, our host,
Madame de Breslin and her daughter Florence, Mr. McAnister,
a Scotch gentleman evidently retired from some business with
money—his own, of course—and not intending to go " bock agen "—
and a Mr. Denson, a man about fifty, with his son Horace, a hand-
some lad, dark as a Spaniard, with a half shy, half sulky, dissatis-
fied air, as though he had been brought down to Meadowsweet Manor
much against his will, and would at that moment give a trifle to be