eaforoldmeninwhitewaistcoats,blue-eyed,lookingyoustraightintheface,playingBach.Ofallwomen,Jacobhonouredhermost.Buttositatatablewithbreadandbutter,withdowagersinvelvet,andneversaymoretoClaraDurrantthanBensonsaidtotheparrotwhenoldMissPerrypouredouttea,wasaninsufferableoutrageuponthelibertiesanddecenciesofhumannature—orwordstothateffect.ForJacobsaidnothing.Onlyheglaredatthefire.FannylaiddownTomJones.
Shestitchedorknitted.
"What'sthat?"askedJacob.
"ForthedanceattheSlade."
Andshefetchedherhead-dresshertrousershershoeswithredtassels.Whatshouldshewear?
"IshallbeinParis,"saidJacob.
Andwhatisthepointoffancy-dressdances?thoughtFanny.YoumeetthesamepeopleyouwearthesameclothesMangingetsdrunkFlorindasitsonhisknee.Sheflirtsoutrageously—withNickBramhamjustnow.
"InParis?"saidFanny.
"OnmywaytoGreece,"hereplied.
For,hesaid,thereisnothingsodetestableasLondoninMay.
Hewouldforgether.
Asparrowflewpastthewindowtrailingastraw—astrawfromastackstoodbyabarninafarmyard.Theoldbrownspanielsnuffsatthebaseforarat.Alreadytheupperbranchesoftheelmtreesareblottedwithnests.Thechestnutshaveflirtedtheirfans.AndthebutterfliesareflauntingacrosstheridesintheForest.PerhapsthePurpleEmperorisfeasting,asMorrissays,uponamassofputridcarrionatthebaseofanoaktree.
FannythoughtitallcamefromTomJones.Hecouldgoalonewithabookinhispocketandwatchthebadgers.Hewouldtakeatrainateight-thirtyandwalkallnight.Hesawfire-flies,andbroughtbackglow-wormsinpill-boxes.HewouldhuntwiththeNewForestStaghounds.ItallcamefromTomJonesandhewouldgotoGreecewithabookinhispocketandforgether.
Shefetchedherhand-glass.Therewasherface.AndsupposeonewreathedJacobinaturban?Therewashisface.Shelitthelamp.Butasthedaylightcamethroughthewindowonlyhalfwaslitupbythelamp.AndthoughhelookedterribleandmagnificentandwouldchucktheForest,hesaid,andcometotheSlade,andbeaTurkishknightoraRomanemperor(andheletherblackenhislipsandclenchedhisteethandscowledintheglass),still—therelayTomJones.