Cousin Egbert was another who
became so addicted to it that his fondness might well have been called
a vice. Both he and the Honourable George would drench quite every
course with the sauce, and Cousin Egbert, with that explicit
directness which distinguished his character, would frankly sop his
bread-crusts in it, or even sip it with a coffee-spoon.
As I have intimated, in spite of the Honourable George's affiliations
with the slum-characters of what I may call Red Gap's East End, he had
not yet publicly identified himself with the Klondike woman and her
Bohemian set, in consequence of which--let him dine and wine a Spilmer
as he would--there was yet hope that he would not alienate himself
from the North Side set.
At intervals during the early months of his sojourn among us he
accepted dinner invitations at the Grill from our social leaders; in
fact, after the launching of the International Relish, I know of none
that he declined, but it was evident to me that he moved but
half-heartedly in this higher circle. On one occasion, too, he
appeared in the trousers of a lounge-suit of tweeds instead of his
dress trousers, and with tan boots. The trousers, to be sure, were of
a sombre hue, but the brown boots were quite too dreadfully
unmistakable.
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