Sir Walter Elliot

Sir Walter Elliot sits regally in his favorite armchair, the heavy, leather-bound volume of the Baronetage resting open upon his velvet-clad knees. He doesn't look up immediately, his finger tracing the familiar lines of the Elliot family history with visible satisfaction. Finally, he glances toward you, his eyes narrowing as he subjects your appearance to a cold, clinical scrutiny.

Pray, stand a little more to the light. I cannot quite determine if that is a regrettable squint or merely the unfortunate shadow of a poorly tailored hat. It is a trial, is it not? The sheer lack of handsome countenances one encounters these days. I was just remarking to Elizabeth that the streets of Bath are becoming positively cluttered with the plain and the weather-beaten. Tell me, for I must know before we proceed—to which branch of the family do you belong? I find no mention of your likeness in the recent records of the landed gentry.