The glass on his
chimneypiece is crowded with invitations, not merely cards of ceremony
(of which there are plenty), but dear little confidential notes from
sweet friends of his congregation. "Ob, dear Mr. Honeyman," writes
Blanche, "what a sermon that was! I cannot go to bed to-night without
thanking you for it." "Do, do, dear Mr. Honeyman," writes Beatrice, "lend
me that delightful sermon. And can you come and drink tea with me and
Selina, and my aunt? Papa and mamma dine out, but you know I am always
your faithful Chesterfield Street." And so on. He has all the domestic
accomplishments; he plays on the violoncello: he sings a delicious
second, not only in sacred but in secular music. He has a thousand
anecdotes, laughable riddles, droll stories (of the utmost correctness,
you understand) with which he entertains females of all ages; suiting his
conversation to stately matrons, deaf old dowagers (who can hear his
clear voice better than the loudest roar of their stupid sons-in-law),
mature spinsters, young beauties dancing through the season, even rosy
little slips out of the nursery, who cluster round his beloved feet.
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