Lord Blueberry was a dignified figure of a man in this picture, and I thought as I looked at it that I should have felt some hesitation in offering him a tip at Christmas time. But if I had been a resident in Culbut, he, no doubt, would have given me one, and I should not have dared to refuse. Young Lord Sandpits was extremely handsome, and stood up boldly, with his muscular arms bare to the elbows, the picture of virile youth. The artist had got some wonderful lines into this picture, especially in the hang of the trousers, which were strapped below the knee.
The furniture in Lady Blueberry's parlour all seemed to be old, but there was very little of it. There were no easy chairs, and, indeed, no upholstery at all, or anything that detracted from the air of severe simplicity that was the note of the room, and attracted strongly by its restfulness. With the exception of the family portraits, there was no ornament whatever. The tea-table was set with crockery of the cheapest description, but all the shapes were good, and the colour was pleasing. A grand piano in a corner of the room seemed a somewhat incongruous feature, but Miriam told me as I looked at it that her cousin Susan was exceptionally gifted musically, and she would get her to play for me after tea.[29]
Lady Blueberry presided most graciously at the tea-table. She had that perfectly natural air of courtesy combined with dignity which is the mark of a great lady anywhere. She was formed in a classical mould, which the severe lines of her afternoon-gown of black alpaca, relieved with touches of white at the neck and wrists, suited admirably. Her abundant hair was brushed back from her broad and placid brow, and knotted simply on the nape of her neck. There were marks of toil on her beautifully shaped hands, which, according to Upsidonian ideas, became them better than jewels.
We talked about a step-sister of Lord Blueberry's--a Mrs. Claude Chanticleer--who was a prominent member of the dirty set. Mrs. Perry had asked about her, and Lady Blueberry's calm face had been somewhat overshadowed as she told us that Tricky, as they called her, had been causing her family considerable anxiety.
"She is always going in for some new extravagance," she said. "She and Claudie gave up their two rooms, as you know, about a year ago, when Mrs. Chetwynd-Jones died of pneumonia, and took possession of her railway arch."