RODERICK HUDSON
as he sat, a pair of yellow kid gloves; he emphasised his conversation with great dashes and flourishes of a silver-tipped walking-stick, and he kept constantly taking off and putting on one of those slouched sombreros which are the traditional property of the Virginian or Carolinian of romance. When his hat was on he was almost romantic, in spite of his mock elegance; and when it was off and he sat nursing it and turning it about and not knowing what to do with it, he could hardly be said to be awkward. He evidently had a native relish for rich accessories, and he appropriated what came to his hand. This was visible in his talk, which abounded in the superlative and the sweeping. His plastic sense took in conversation altogether the turn of colour.
Rowland, who was a temperate talker, sat by in silence, while Cecilia, who had told him that she desired his opinion upon her friend, used a good deal of characteristic art in leading the young man on to put himself before them. She perfectly succeeded, and Hudson rattled away for an hour with a volubility in which the innocence of youth and the assurance of felt and unwonted success were singularly blended. He gave his opinion on twenty topics, he opened up the crystal flood of local gossip, he described his repulsive routine at the office of Messrs. Striker and Spooner, counsellors-at-law, and he gave with a hundred happy touches an account of the annual boat-race between Harvard and Yale, which he had lately admired at Worcester. He had looked at the straining oarsmen
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