Eliza Provost shortly came down, and the three strolled out
into the ruddy light of late afternoon. Howat Penny consumed a long time
dressing for the evening; and, in the end, irritably summoned Rudolph.
"I can't get these damned studs in," he complained; "whatever do you
suppose women use for starch now?" Rudolph dexterously fixed the
emeralds, then held the black silk waistcoat. "And coats won't hang for
a bawbee," he went on. "Gentlemen like Gary Dilkes used to go regularly
to London, spring and fall, for their things. No doubt then about a man
of breeding. You didn't see the other kind around. Wouldn't have 'em."
Rudolph murmured consolingly. "Sat in the pit but never got into the
boxes," his voice grew thin, querulous. "I'm moving along, Rudolph," he
admitted suddenly; "the manners, and, by thunder, the music too, don't
suit me any more. Give me the old Academy days in Irving Place." He
hummed a bar from _Ernani_.
Through dinner he maintained a severe silence, listening with a frowning
disapproval to Eliza Provost's tranquil, subversive utterances. Howat
Penny couldn't think what her father was about, permitting her to
harangue loafers by the streets and saloons. She was, in a cold way--she
had Peter Jannan Provost's curious grey colouring--a handsome piece of a
girl, too.
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