"He is the first law reformer that perhaps ever lived," said Mr. Stistick, enthusiastically.
"And I hope will be the last in my time," said his enemy.
"I hope he will live to complete his work," said the politician.
"Then Methuselah will be a child to him, and Jared and Lamech little babies," said the judge.
"In such case he has got his work before him, certainly," said Mr. Solicitor.
And so the battle was kept up between them, and George Bertram and Lady Harcourt sat by and listened; or more probably, perhaps, sat by and did not listen.
But when her ladyship and Mrs. Stistick had retreated—Oh, my readers, fancy what that next hour must have been to Caroline Harcourt!—How Gothic, how barbarous are we still in our habits, in that we devote our wives to such wretchedness as that! O, lady, has it ever been your lot to sit out such hour as that with some Mrs. Stistick, who would neither talk, nor read, nor sleep; in whose company you could neither talk, nor read, nor yet sleep? And if such has been your lot, have you not asked yourself why in this civilized country, in this civilized century, you should be doomed to such a senseless, sleepless purgatory?—But when they were gone, and when the judge, radiant with fun and happiness, hastened to fill his claret beaker, then Bertram by degrees thawed, and began to feel that after all the world was perhaps not yet dead around him.
"Well, Mr. Stistick," said the baron; "if Sir Henry will allow us, we'll drink Lord Boanerges."
"With all my heart," said Mr. Stistick. "He is a man of whom it may be said—"
"That no man knew better on which side his bread was buttered."