An unimpeachably
consumptive style of clerical beauty did the mirror reflect; the
countenance contracting to an expression of almost malevolent piety when
the comb went over a bump, and relaxing to an open-mouthed charity for
all mankind, amounting nearly to imbecility, when the more complex
requirements of the parting process compelled twists of the head
scarcely compatible with even so much as a squint at the glass.
It being breakfast time, Mrs. SIMPSON--mother of OCTAVIUS--was just down
for the meal, and surveyed the operation with a look of undisguised
anxiety.
"You'll break one of them yet, some morning, OCTAVE," said the old lady.
"Do what, OLDY?" asked the writhing Gospeler, apparently speaking out of
his right ear.
"You'll break either the comb, or your neck, some morning."
Rendered momentarily irritable by this aggravating remark, the Reverend
OCTAVIUS made a jab with the comb at the old lady's false-front, pulling
it down quite askew over her left eye; but, upon the sudden entrance of
a servant with the tea-pot, he made precipitate pretence that his hand
was upon his mother's head to give her a morning blessing.
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