“I never meet him.”
“He comes in September or October, when you, of course, are not in town, and it is in town that the Lansmeres meet him.”
“Why does he not go to them?”
“A man in England but once a year, and for a few days, has so much to do in London, I suppose.”
“Is he as amusing as ever?” Egerton nodded.
“So distinguished as he might be!” remarked Lord Westbourne.
“So distinguished as he is!” said Egerton, formally; “an officer selected for praise, even in such fields as Quatre Bras and Waterloo; a scholar, too, of the finest taste; and as an accomplished gentleman matchless!”
“I like to hear one man praise another so warmly in these ill-natured days,” answered Lord Westbourne. “But still, though L’Estrange is doubtless all you say, don’t you think he rather wastes his life living abroad?”
“And trying to be happy, Westbourne? Are you sure it is not we who waste our lives? But I can’t stay to hear your answer. Here we are at the door of my prison.”
“On Saturday, then?”