It is blue. And how finely her head is joined on to her
shoulders!"--And he waves in the air an imaginary line with his cigar.
"She would do for Judith, wouldn't she? Or how grand she would look as
Herodias's daughter sweeping down a stair--in a great dress of
cloth-of-gold like Paul Veronese--holding a charger before her with white
arms, you know--with the muscles accented like that glorious Diana at
Paris--a savage smile on her face and a ghastly solemn gory head on the
dish. I see the picture, sir, I see the picture!" and he fell to curling
his mustachios just like his brave old father.
I could not help laughing at the resemblance, and mentioning it to my
friend. He broke, as was his wont, into a fond eulogium of his sire,
wished he could be like him--worked himself up into another state of
excitement, in which he averred "that if his father wanted him to marry,
he would marry that instant. And why not Rosey? She is a dear little
thing. Or why not that splendid Miss Sherrick? What ahead!--a regular
Titian! I was looking at the difference of their colour at Uncle
Honeyman's that day of the dejeuner.
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