At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese.
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