Jilted! Or, My Uncle's Scheme, Volume 1Russell, William Clark
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Jilted! Or, My Uncle's Scheme, Volume 1
Russell, William Clark
English fiction -- 19th century
Conny laughed merrily; but, being afraid that my answer was a rather
ungracious one, all things considered, I changed the subject by asking
my uncle if he smoked. Yes, he did smoke, incessantly, Mrs. Hargrave
told me; which meant that he had a cigar after dinner and a cigar
with his grog before going to bed. I should have probably pointed
out that my uncle was extraordinarily moderate in his consumption of
tobacco, and have proceeded to give a sketch of our club in the Rue des
Chiens, and the immense quantity of _tabac fin_ and cigars that were
smoked there at a sitting, had not dinner been announced. I gave my
arm to my aunt, and, followed by Conny and her papa, marched into the
dining-room, a charming apartment with a large window conducting on to
the lawn, and glass doors leading into the conservatory, the walls hung
with good paintings, and the whole of the furniture in happy taste.
The setting sun was shining in front, and filled the room with long
slanting rules of pink light, the effect of which was to make Conny,
who took a seat fronting me, bewitchingly pretty. I had tasted no food
since eight o’clock that morning, and therefore did abundant justice
to the very good dinner that had been provided for me. My uncle was
a capital host. He allowed me to eat instead of disturbing me with
remarks, and damaging my appetite by obliging me to talk. His wines
were capital; his cook, like Bayard, _sans reproche_; I said to him,
holding up a glass of Madeira, “My father would appreciate this.”
“Yes,” he answered; “why doesn’t he come and see us? I should find him
aged, no doubt; but he was always a handsome man.” And he began to tell
us stories of his and his brother’s young days, and how a certain young
lady broke her heart when my father went to India, and how another
young lady turned Roman Catholic, and faded into a white veil, when my
father married. I thought Conny looked sentimental whilst she listened.
I caught her eye once, during these startling revelations, but saw that
she was not thinking of me by her abstracted air.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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