“I beg your pardon, Mr. Leslie. I remember you now by your smile; but you are of an age in which it is permitted me to say that you look older than when I saw you last.”
“And yet, Lord L’Estrange, it seems to me that you look younger.”
Indeed, this reply was so far true that there appeared less difference of years than before between Leslie and L’Estrange; for the wrinkles in the schemer’s mind were visible in his visage, while Harley’s dreamy worship of Truth and Beauty seemed to have preserved to the votary the enduring youth of the divinities.
Harley received the compliment with a supreme indifference, which might have been suitable to a Stoic, but which seemed scarcely natural to a gentleman who had just proposed to a lady many years younger than himself.
Leslie renewed: “Perhaps you are on your way to Mr. Egerton’s. If so, you will not find him at home; he is at his office.”
“Thank you. Then to his office I must re-direct my steps.”
“I am going to him myself,” said Randal, hesitatingly. L’Estrange had no prepossessions in favour of Leslie from the little he had seen of that young gentleman; but Randal’s remark was an appeal to his habitual urbanity, and he replied, with well-bred readiness, “Let us be companions so far.”
Randal accepted the arm proffered to him; and Lord L’Estrange, as is usual with one long absent from his native land, bore part as a questioner in the dialogue that ensued.
“Egerton is always the same man, I suppose,—too busy for illness, and too firm for sorrow?”
“If he ever feel either, he will never stoop to complain. But, indeed, my dear lord, I should like much to know what you think of his health.”