I got up
with lightning rapidity and put out the two candles on the
writing-table with the palms of my hands, returning noiselessly
to Peter's side on the sofa, where we sat in black darkness, The
door opened and my father came in holding a bedroom candle in his
hand; he proceeded to walk stealthily round the room, looking at
his pictures. The sofa on which we were sitting was in the window
and had nothing behind it but tile curtains. He held his candle
high and close to every picture in turn and, putting his head
forward, scanned them with tenderness and love. I saw Peter's
idiotic hat and stick under the Gainsborough and could not resist
nudging him as "The Ladies Erne and Dillon" were slowly
approached. A candle held near one's face is the most blinding of
all things and, after inspecting the sloping shoulders and anaemic
features of the Gainsborough ladies, my father, quietly humming to
himself, returned to his bed.
Things did not always go so smoothly with us. One night Peter
suggested that I should walk away with him from the ball and try
an American trotter which had been lent to him by a friend. As it
was a glorious night, I thought it might be rather fun, so we
walked down Grosvenor Street into Park Lane; and there stood the
buggy under a lamp. American trotters always appear to be
misshapen; they are like coloured prints that are not quite in
drawing and have never attracted me.
After we had placed ourselves firmly in the rickety buggy, Peter
said to the man as he took the reins:
"Let him go, please!"
And go he did, with a curious rapid, swaying waddle.
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