go upstairs. The gentlemen soon saunter after them. Fledgeby has devoted the interval to taking an observation of Boots’s whiskers, Brewer’s whiskers, and Lammle’s whiskers, and considering which pattern of whisker he would prefer to produce out of himself by friction, if the Genie of the cheek would only answer to his rubbing.
In the drawing-room, groups form as usual. Lightwood, Boots, and Brewer, flutter like moths around that yellow wax candle—guttering down, and with some hint of a winding-sheet in it—Lady Tippins. Outsiders cultivate Veneering, M.P. , and Mrs. Veneering, W.M.P. Lammle stands with folded arms, Mephistophelean in a corner, with Georgiana and Fledgeby. Mrs. Lammle, on a sofa by a table, invites Mr. Twemlow’s attention to a book of portraits in her hand.
Mr. Twemlow takes his station on a settee before her, and Mrs. Lammle shows him a portrait.
“You have reason to be surprised,” she says softly, “but I wish you wouldn’t look so.”
Disturbed Twemlow, making an effort not to look so, looks much more so.
“I think, Mr. Twemlow, you never saw that distant connection of yours before today?”
“No, never.”
“Now that you do see him, you see what he is. You are not proud of him?”
“To say the truth, Mrs. Lammle, no.”
“If you knew more of him, you would be less inclined to acknowledge him. Here is another portrait. What do you think of it?”