Thus attired, with a little
silver-mounted whip which he kept flourishing about, he encountered Mr.
Sponge in the entrance-hall, after breakfast. Mr. Sponge, like all men who
are 'extremely natty' themselves, men who wouldn't have a button out of
place if it was ever so, hardly knew what to think of Jawleyford's costume.
It was clear he was no sportsman; and then came the question, whether he
was of the privileged few who may do what they like, and who can carry off
any kind of absurdity. Whatever uneasiness Sponge felt on that score,
Jawleyford, however, was quite at his ease, and swaggered about like an
aide-de-camp at a review.
'Well, we should be going, I suppose,' said he, drawing on a pair of
half-dirty, lemon-coloured kid gloves, and sabreing the air with his whip.
'Is Lord Scamperdale punctual?' asked Sponge.
'Tol-lol,' replied Jawleyford, 'tol-lol.'
'He'll wait for _you_, I suppose?' observed Sponge, thinking to try
Jawleyford on that infallible criterion of favour.
'Why, if he knew I was coming, I dare say he would,' replied Jawleyford
slowly and deliberately, feeling it was now no time for flashing.
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