“This Mr. John Ardworth, a pert enough jackanapes, I suppose,—a limb of the law, eh?”
“Sir,” said Percival, gravely, “John Ardworth is my particular friend. It is clear that you know very little of him.”
“That’s true,” said the stranger,—“‘pon my life, that’s very true. But I suppose he’s like all lawyers,—cunning and tricky, conceited and supercilious, full of prejudice and cant, and a red-hot Tory into the bargain. I know them, sir; I know them!”
“Well,” answered St. John, half gayly, half angrily, “your general experience serves you very little here; for Ardworth is exactly the opposite of all you have described.”
“Even in politics?”
“Why, I fear he is half a Radical,—certainly more than a Whig,” answered St. John, rather mournfully; for his own theories were all the other way, notwithstanding his unpatriotic forgetfulness of them in his offer to assist Ardworth’s entrance into parliament.
“I am very glad to hear it,” cried the stranger, again taking snuff. “And this Madame at Brompton—perhaps I know her a little better than I do young Mr. Ardworth—Mrs. Brad—I mean Madame Dalibard!” and the stranger glanced at Mr. Mivers, who was slowly recovering from some vigorous slaps on the back administered to him by his wife as a counter-irritant to the cough. “Is it true that she has lost the use of her limbs?”
Percival shook his head.
“And takes care of poor Helen Mainwaring the orphan? Well, well, that looks amiable enough. I must see; I must see!”
“Who shall I say inquired after her, when I see Madame Dalibard?” asked Percival, with some curiosity.