Binnie had his retiring pension, and, besides, had
saved half his allowances ever since he had been in India. He was a man
of great reading, no small ability, considerable accomplishment,
excellent good sense and good humour. The ostentatious said he was a
screw; but he gave away more money than far more extravagant people: he
was a disciple of David Hume (whom he admired more than any other
mortal), and the serious denounced him as a man of dangerous principles,
though there were, among the serious, men much more dangerous than James
Binnie.
On returning to his hotel, Colonel Newcome found this worthy gentleman
installed in his room in the best arm-chair sleeping cosily; the evening
paper laid decently over his plump waistcoat, and his little legs placed
on an opposite chair. Mr. Binnie woke up briskly when the Colonel
entered. "It is you, you gad-about, is it?" cried the civilian. "How has
the beau monde of London treated the Indian Adonis? Have you made a
sensation, Newcome? Gad, Tom, I remember you a buck of bucks when that
coat first came out to Calcutta--just a Barrackpore Brummell--in Lord
Minto's reign, was it, or when Lord Hastings was satrap over us?"
"A man must have one good coat," says the Colonel; "I don't profess to be
a dandy; but get a coat from a good tailor, and then have done with it.
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