Searching for something else to say, Percival asked Mrs. Mivers if she had lately seen John Ardworth.
The guest, who had just reseated himself, turned his chair round at that question with such vivacity that Mrs. Mivers heard it crack. Her chairs were not meant for such usage. A shade fell over her rosy countenance as she replied,—
"No, indeed (please, sir, them chairs is brittle)! No, he is like Madame at Brompton, and seldom condescends to favour us now. It was but last Sunday we asked him to dinner. I am sure he need not turn up his nose at our roast beef and pudding!"
Here Mr. Mivers was taken with a violent fit of coughing, which drew off his wife's attention. She was afraid he had taken cold.
The stranger took out a large snuff-box, inhaled a long pinch of snuff, and said to St. John,—
"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?"