“And he never does anything else,” said the old lady of the censorious countenance. “Yet would you believe that it’s his name on the doorplate?”
“His son’s name is the same, you know,” said I.
“He wouldn’t let his son have any name if he could take it from him,” returned the old lady. “Look at the son’s dress!” It certainly was plain—threadbare—almost shabby. “Yet the father must be garnished and tricked out,” said the old lady, “because of his deportment. I’d deport him! Transport him would be better!”
I felt curious to know more concerning this person. I asked, “Does he give lessons in deportment now?”
“Now!” returned the old lady shortly. “Never did.”
After a moment’s consideration, I suggested that perhaps fencing had been his accomplishment.
“I don’t believe he can fence at all, ma’am,” said the old lady.
I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old lady, becoming more and more incensed against the master of deportment as she dwelt upon the subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with strong assurances that they were mildly stated.
He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable connection (having never in his life before done anything but deport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses which were indispensable to his position. At once to exhibit his deportment to the best models and to keep the best models constantly before himself, he had found it necessary to frequent all public places of fashionable and lounging resort, to be seen at Brighton and elsewhere at fashionable