The Serpent's Tooth by B.M. Croker

Colonel Fenchurch stood on his own hearthstone -- that is to say, the smoking-room rug -- with his back to the fire, and a cup of tea in his hand. He was a good-looking dapper little man, with a neat white moustache, a cheery voice, and an unfailing flow of talk.

"I say, Doodie," turning to a lady in a splashed habit, who was meditatively consuming buttered toast, "weren't the roads beastly? Just look at my boots and leathers!"