He is too busy over nothing, this man about
town, to be always thinking of himself, but, on the other hand, he
almost never thinks of any other person. Probably Ernest's great
moment is when he wakes of a morning and realises that he really is
Ernest, for we must all wish to be that which is our ideal. We can
conceive him springing out of bed light-heartedly and waiting for
his man to do the rest. He is dressed in excellent taste, with just
the little bit more which shows that he is not without a sense of
humour: the dandiacal are often saved by carrying a smile at the
whole thing in their spats, let us say. Ernest left Cambridge the
other day, a member of The Athenaeum (which he would be sorry to
have you confound with a club in London of the same name). He is a
bachelor, but not of arts, no mean epigrammatist (as you shall see),
and a favourite of the ladies. He is almost a celebrity in
restaurants, where he dines frequently, returning to sup; and during
this last year he has probably paid as much in them for the
privilege of handing his hat to an attendant as the rent of a
working-man's flat.
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