"And I've only got a
minute. I'm on my way to Euston. I must catch the twelve-five."
He looked at his friend, and could positively see no feature of it
that was not a feature of Mrs. Scales's face. Also, the elderly
woman held her body in exactly the same way as the young man. It
was entirely disconcerting.
"Have a cigarette," answered Cyril Povey, imperturbably. He was
two years younger than Matthew, from whom he had acquired most of
his vast and intricate knowledge of life and art, with certain
leading notions of deportment; whose pupil indeed he was in all
the things that matter to young men. But he had already surpassed
his professor. He could pretend to be old much more successfully
than Matthew could.
The cabman approvingly watched the ignition of the second
cigarette, and then the cabman pulled out a cigar, and showed his
large, white teeth, as he bit the end off it. The appearance and
manner of his fare, the quality of the kit-bag, and the opening
gestures of the interview between the two young dukes, had put the
cabman in an optimistic mood. He had no apprehensions of miserly
and ungentlemanly conduct by his fare upon the arrival at Euston.
He knew the language of the tilt of a straw hat.
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