"Jim might go down and see her, certainly," the housewife said; adding with a sigh, "If we could but get one of the girls into the house; but she could never endure them, because they are not pretty!" Those unfortunate and well-educated women made themselves heard from the neighbouring drawing-room, where they were thrumming away, with hard fingers, an elaborate music-piece on the piano-forte, as their mother spoke; and indeed, they were at music, or at backboard, or at geography, or at history, the whole day long. But what avail all these accomplishments, in Vanity Fair, to girls who are short, poor, plain, and have a bad complexion? Mrs. Bute could think of nobody but the Curate to take one of them off her hands; and Jim coming in from the stable at this minute, through the parlour window, with a short pipe stuck in his oilskin cap, he and his father fell to talking about odds on the St. Leger, and the colloquy between the Rector and his wife ended.
Mrs. Bute did not augur much good to the cause from the sending of her son James as an ambassador, and saw him depart in rather a despairing mood. Nor did the young fellow himself, when told what his mission was to be, expect much pleasure or benefit from it; but he was consoled by the thought that possibly the old lady would give him some handsome remembrance of her, which would pay a few of his most pressing bills at the commencement of the ensuing Oxford term, and so took his place by the coach from Southampton, and was safely landed at Brighton on the same evening with his portmanteau, his favourite bull-dog Towzer, and an immense basket of farm and garden produce, from the dear Rectory folks to the dear Miss Crawley. Considering it was too late to disturb the invalid lady on the first night of his arrival, he put up at an inn, and did not wait upon Miss Crawley until a late hour in the noon of next day.
James Crawley, when his aunt had last beheld him, was a gawky lad, at that uncomfortable age when the voice varies between an unearthly treble and a preternatural bass; when the face not uncommonly blooms out with appearances for which Rowland's Kalydor is said to act as a cure; when boys are seen to shave furtively with their sister's scissors, and the sight of other young women produces intolerable sensations of terror in them; when the great hands and ankles protrude a long way from garments which have grown too tight for them; when their presence after dinner is at once frightful to the ladies, who are whispering in the twilight in the drawing-room, and inexpressibly odious to the gentlemen over the mahogany, who are restrained from freedom of intercourse and delightful interchange of wit by the presence of that gawky innocence; when, at the conclusion of the second glass, papa says, "Jack, my boy, go out and see if the evening holds up," and the youth, willing to be free, yet hurt at not being yet a man, quits the incomplete banquet. James, then a hobbadehoy, was now become a young man, having had the benefits of a university education, and acquired the inestimable polish which is gained by living in a fast set at a small college, and contracting debts, and being rusticated, and being plucked.

"Jim might go down and see her, certainly," his wife said; adding with a sigh, "If we could only get one of the girls into the house; but she could never endure them, because they are not pretty!"
Those unfortunate and well-educated women were in the drawing-room, where they were thrumming away, with hard fingers, an elaborate piece on the piano; indeed, they were at music, or the back-board, or geography, or history, all day long. But what use are all these accomplishments, in Vanity Fair, to girls who are short, poor, plain, and have a bad complexion? Mrs. Bute could think of nobody but the Curate to take one of them off her hands.
Mrs. Bute did not predict much good from the sending of her son James as an ambassador. Nor did the young fellow himself expect much pleasure from his mission; but he was consoled by the thought that possibly the old lady would give him some handsome sum on leaving, which would pay a few bills at the start of the next Oxford term.
So he travelled by the coach from Southampton to Brighton with his portmanteau, his favourite bull-dog Towzer, and an immense basket of garden produce from the dear Rectory folks to dear Miss Crawley. Thinking it was too late to disturb the invalid lady on the first night of his arrival, he put up at an inn, and did not visit Miss Crawley until late afternoon next day.
James Crawley, when his aunt had last seen him, was a gawky lad, at that uncomfortable age when the voice varies between an unearthly treble and a bass; when boys are seen to shave furtively with their sister's scissors, and the sight of other young women produces terror in them; when the great hands and ankles protrude a long way from garments which have grown too tight. James, then a hobbadehoy, was now become a young man, and had acquired the polish which is gained by living in a fast set at a small college, and contracting debts, and being failed and rusticated.
