her face with her hands to smooth away the traces of her laughter.
He grasped my hand in a very large and heavy glove, with which he then wiped his perspiring brow.
“Well, Beardsall, old man,” he said, “and how’s things? God, I’m not ’alf hot! Fine idea though——” He showed me his snow-shoes.
“Ripping! ain’t they? I’ve come like an Indian brave——” He rolled his “r’s,” and lengthened out his “ah’s” tremendously—“brra-ave.”
“Couldn’t resist it though,” he continued.
“Remember your party last year—Girls turned up? On the war-path, eh?” He pursed up his childish lips, and rubbed his fat chin.
Having removed his coat, and the white wrap which protected his collar, not to mention the snowflakes, which Rebecca took almost as an insult to herself—he seated his fat, hot body on a chair, and proceeded to take off his gaiters and his boots. Then he donned his dancing pumps, and I led him upstairs.
“Lord, I skimmed here like a swallow!” he continued—and I looked at his corpulence.
“Never met a soul, though they’ve had a snowplough down the road. I saw the marks of a cart up the drive, so I guessed the Tempests were here. So Lettie’s put her nose in Tempest’s nosebag—leaves nobody a chance, that—some women have rum taste—only they’re like ravens, they go for the gilding—don’t blame ’em—only it leaves nobody a chance. Madie Howitt’s coming, I suppose?”
I ventured something about the snow.
