“And, do you know,” added the statesman, “that you have quite made a conquest of Lord Guloseton? He speaks of you publicly in the highest terms: I wish we could get him and his votes. We must be strengthened, my dear Pelham; every thing depends on the crisis.”
“Are you certain of the cabinet?” I asked.
“Yes; it is not yet publicly announced, but it is fully known amongst us, who comes in, and who stays out. I am to have the place of—.”
“I congratulate your lordship from my heart. What post do you design for me?”
Lord Dawton changed countenance. “Why—really—Pelham, we have not yet filled up the lesser appointments, but you shall be well remembered—well, my dear Pelham, be sure of it.”
I looked at the noble speaker with a glance which, I flatter myself, is peculiar to me. If, thought I, the embryo minister is playing upon me as upon one of his dependant characters; if he dares forget what he owes to my birth and zeal, I will grind myself to powder but I will shake him out of his seat. The anger of the moment passed away.
“Lord Dawton,” said I, “one word, and I have done discussing my claims for the present. Do you mean to place me in Parliament as soon as you are in the cabinet? What else you intend for me, I question not.”
“Yes, assuredly, Pelham. How can you doubt it?”
“Enough!—and now read this letter from France.”
Two days after my interview with Lord Dawton, as I was riding leisurely through the Green Park, in no very bright and social mood, one of the favoured carriages, whose owners are permitted to say, “Hic iter est nobis,” overtook me. A sweet voice ordered the coachman to stop, and then addressed itself to me.