[Illustration: MR. PACEY]
Pacey was one of those deplorable beings--a country swell. Tomkins and
Hopkins, the haberdashers of Swillingford, never exhibited an ugly
out-of-the-way neckcloth or waistcoat with the words 'patronized by the
Prince,' 'very fashionable,' or 'quite the go,' upon them, but he
immediately adorned himself in one. On the present occasion he was attired
in a wide-stretching, lace-tipped, black Joinville, with recumbent gills,
showing the heavy amplitude of his enormous jaws, while the extreme
scooping out of a collarless, flashy-buttoned, chain-daubed, black silk
waistcoat, with broad blue stripes, afforded an uninterrupted view of a
costly embroidered shirt, the view extending, indeed, up to a portion of
his white satin 'forget-me-not' embroidered braces. His coat was a
broad-sterned, brass-buttoned blue, with pockets outside, and of course he
wore a pair of creaking highly varnished boots. He was apparently, about
twenty; just about the age when a youth thinks it fine to associate with
men, and an age at which some men are not above taking advantage of a
youth.
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