FOTHER. And this circumstance?
BRUM. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing
that serves him for a waistcoat--an instrument that, he says, has been
in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an
hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now
let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen,
plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you
are dressed in execrable taste--all black and white, like a magpie.
Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can
incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything
should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me--but
then it is a coat--while that thing you wear--I really don't know what
we can call it.
FOTHER. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my
mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.
BRUM. Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that
you take medicine--you take a walk--you take a liberty--but you drink
tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again.
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