And he is pleased as
a child at a pantomime--the Winsleigh "at home" is a show that amuses
him,--and he makes sundry remarks on "'im" and "'er" in a meditative
_sotto voce_. He peeps up Awning Avenue heedless of the severe eye of
the policeman on guard,--he sweeps the edge of the crimson felt
foot-cloth tenderly with his broom,--and if he has a desire ungratified,
it is that he might take a peep just for a minute inside the front door,
and see how "they're all a'goin' it!"
And how _are_ they a'goin' it! Well, not very hilariously, if one may
judge by the aspect of the gentlemen in the hall and on the
stairs,--gentlemen of serious demeanor, who are leaning, as though
exhausted, against the banisters, with a universal air of profound
weariness and dissatisfaction. Some of these are young fledglings of
manhood,--callow birds who, though by no means innocent,--are more or
less inexperienced,--and who have fluttered hither to the snare of Lady
Winsleigh's "at home," half expecting to be allowed to make love to
their hostess, and so have something to boast of afterwards,--others are
of the middle-aged complacent type, who, though infinitely bored, have
condescended to "look in" for ten minutes or so, to see if there are any
pretty women worth the honor of their criticism--others again (and these
are the most unfortunate) are the "nobodies"--or husbands, fathers, and
brothers of "beauties," whom they have dutifully escorted to the scene
of triumph, in which they, unlucky wights! are certainly not expected to
share.
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