“What is strange?”
“That there is a kind of language in your friend’s music and poetry which comes home to me, like words I have heard years ago! Is he young, this Mr. Maltravers?”
“Yes, he is still young.”
“And, and—”
Here Mrs. Templeton was interrupted by the entrance of her husband. He held the letter from Lord Saxingham—it was yet unopened. He seemed moody; but that was common with him. He coldly shook hands with Lumley; nodded to his wife, found fault with the fire, and throwing himself into his easy-chair, said, “So, Lumley, I think I was a fool for taking your advice—and hanging back about this new election. I see by the evening papers that there is shortly to be a creation of peers. If I had shown activity on behalf of the government I might have shamed them into gratitude.”
“I think I was right, sir,” replied Lumley; “public men are often alarmed into gratitude, seldom shamed into it. Firm votes, like old friends, are most valued when we think we are about to lose them; but what is that letter in your hand?”
“Oh, some begging petition, I suppose.”
“Pardon me—it has an official look.” Templeton put on his spectacles, raised the letter, examined the address and seal, hastily opened it, and broke into an exclamation very like an oath: when he had concluded—“Give me your hand, nephew—the thing is settled—I am to have the peerage. You were right—ha, ha!—my dear wife, you will be my lady, think of that—aren’t you glad?—why don’t your ladyship smile? Where’s the child—where is she, I say?”
“Gone to bed, sir,” said Mrs. Templeton, half frightened.
“Gone to bed! I must go and kiss her. Gone to bed, has she? Light that candle, Lumley.” [Here Mr. Templeton rang the bell.] “John,” said he, as the servant entered,—“John, tell James to go the first thing in the morning to Baxter’s, and tell him not to paint my chariot till he hears from me. I must go kiss the child—I must, really.”