Mr. Clive himself, let that painter be assured, will not be
too well pleased if his countenance and figure do not receive proper
attention. He is not yet endowed with those splendid mustachios and
whiskers which he has himself subsequently depicted, but he is the
picture of health, strength, activity, and good-humour. He has a good
forehead, shaded with a quantity of waving light hair; a complexion which
ladies might envy; a mouth which seems accustomed to laughing; and a pair
of blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence and frank kindness. No wonder
the pleased father cannot refrain from looking at him. He is, in a word,
just such a youth as has a right to be the hero of a novel.
The bell rings for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in cap and
gown, comes in to shake Colonel Newcome by the hand, and to say he
supposes it's to be a holiday for Newcome that day. He does not say a
word about Clive's scrape of the day before, and that awful row in the
bedrooms, where the lad and three others were discovered making a supper
off a pork-pie and two bottles of prime old port from the Red Cow
public-house in Grey Friars Lane.
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