'Rowley!' cried I reprovingly.
Strictly it should have been Gammon; but in the hurry of the
moment, my fault (I can only hope) passed unperceived. At the same
time I caught the eye of the postmaster. He was long and lean, and
brown and bilious; he had the drooping nose of the humourist, and
the quick attention of a man of parts. He read my embarrassment in
a glance, stepped instantly forward, sent the post-boy to the
rightabout with half a word, and was back next moment at my side.
'Dinner in a private room, sir? Very well. John, No. 4! What
wine would you care to mention? Very well, sir. Will you please
to order fresh horses? Not, sir? Very well.'
Each of these expressions was accompanied by something in the
nature of a bow, and all were prefaced by something in the nature
of a smile, which I could very well have done without. The man's
politeness was from the teeth outwards; behind and within, I was
conscious of a perpetual scrutiny: the scene at his doorstep, the
random confidences of the post-boy, had not been thrown away on
this observer; and it was under a strong fear of coming trouble
that I was shown at last into my private room. I was in half a
mind to have put off the whole business. But the truth is, now my
name had got abroad, my fear of the mail that was coming, and the
handbills it should contain, had waxed inordinately, and I felt I
could never eat a meal in peace till I had severed my connection
with the claret-coloured chaise.
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