“Hush! Pelham,” said his lordship, who is a quiet, grave, meditative little man, always ruminating on a very small cud—“hush! or do oblige me by looking over this history, to find out the date of the Council of Pisa.”
“That will do, my young friend,” said his lordship, after I had furnished him with the information he required—“I wish to Heaven, I could finish this pamphlet by to-morrow: it is intended as an answer to—. But I am so perplexed with business, that—”
“Perhaps,” said I, “if you will pardon my interrupting you, I can throw your observations together—make your Sibylline leaves into a book. Your lordship will find the matter, and I will not spare the trouble.”
Lord Dawton was profuse in his thanks; he explained the subject, and left the arrangement wholly to me. He could not presume to dictate. I promised him, if he lent me the necessary books, to finish the pamphlet against the following evening.
“And now,” said Lord Dawton—“that we have settled this affair—what news from France?”—
“I wish,” sighed Lord Dawton, as we were calculating our forces, “that we could gain over Lord Guloseton.”
“What, the facetious epicure?” said I.
“The same,” answered Dawton: “we want him as a dinner-giver; and, besides, he has four votes in the Lower House.”
“Well,” said I, “he is indolent and independent—it is not impossible.”
“Do you know him?” answered Dawton.