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ON HIS WAY THROUGH THE WORLD 538
entertain them at his hospitable table; to brag about his wines,
cookery, plate, garden, prosperity, and private virtue, during
dinner, whilst the artists sat respectfully listening to him ; and to
go to sleep and snore, or wake up and join cheerfully in a chorus,
when the professional people performed in the drawing-room. Now,
there was a lady who was once known at the theatre by the name
of Mrs. Ravenswing, and who had been forced on to the stage by
the misconduct of her husband, a certain Walker, one of the
greatest scamps who ever entered a gaol. On Walker's death, this
lady married a Mr. Woolsey, a wealthy tailor, who retired from his
business, as he caused his wife to withdraw from hers.
Now, more worthy and honourable people do not live than
Woolsey and his wife, as those know who are acquainted with
their history. Mrs. Woolsey is loud. Her h's are by no means
where they should be ; her knife at dinner is often where it should
not be. She calls men aloud by their names, and without any
prefix of courtesy. She is very fond of porter, and has no scruple in
asking for it. She sits down to play the piano and to sing with
perfect good-nature, and if you look at her hands as they wander
over the keys—well, I don't wish to say anything unkind, but I am
forced to say that those hands are not so white as the ivory which
they thump. Woolsey sits in perfect rapture listening to his wife.
Mugford presses her to take a glass of "somethink" afterwards;
and the good-natured soul says she will take " something 'ot." She
sits and listens with infinite patience and good-humour whilst the
little Mugfords go through their horrid little musical exercises ; and
these over, she is ready to go back to the piano again, and sing
more songs, and drink more " 'ot."
I do not say that this was an elegant woman, or a fitting companion
for Mrs. Philip ; but I know that Mrs. Woolsey was a good,
clever, and kindly woman, and that Philip behaved rudely to her.
He never meant to be rude to her, he said; but the truth is, he
treated her, her husband, Mugford, and Mrs. Mugford, with a
haughty ill-humour which utterly exasperated and perplexed them.
About this poor lady, who was modest and innocent as Susannah,
Philip had heard some wicked elders at wicked clubs tell wicked
stories in old times. There was that old Trail, for instance, what
woman escaped from his sneers and slander 1 There were others
who could be named, and whose testimony was equally untruthful.
On an ordinary occasion Philip would never have cared or squabbled
about a question of precedence, and would have taken any place
assigned to him at any table. But when Mrs. Woolsey in crumpled
satins and blowsy lace made her appearance, and was eagerly and
respectfully saluted by the host and hostess, Philip remembered