“The saloon of Diana,” replied Guloseton—“for she must certainly have shot the fine buck of which Lord H. sent me the haunch that we shall have to-day. It is the true old Meynell breed. I ask you not to meet Mr. So-and-so, and Lord What-dye-call-him: I ask you to meet a saute de foie gras, and a haunch of venison.”
“I will most certainly pay them my respects. Never did I know before how far things were better company than persons. Your lordship has taught me that great truth.”
“God bless me,” cried Guloseton, with an air of vexation, “here comes the Duke of Stilton, a horrid person, who told me the other day, at my petit diner, when I apologized to him for some strange error of my artiste’s, by which common vinegar had been substituted for Chili—who told me—what think you he told me? You cannot guess; he told me, forsooth, that he did not care what he eat; and, for his part, he could make a very good dinner off a beef-steak! Why the deuce, then, did he come and dine with me? Could he have said any thing more cutting? Imagine my indignation, when I looked round my table and saw so many good things thrown away upon such an idiot.”
Scarcely was the last word out of the gourmand’s mouth before the noble personage so designated, joined us. It amused me to see Guloseton’s contempt (which he scarcely took the pains to suppress) of a person whom all Europe honoured, and his evident weariness of a companion, whose society every one else would have coveted as the summum bonum of worldly distinction. As for me, feeling any thing but social, I soon left the ill-matched pair, and rode into the other park.
Just as I entered it, I perceived, on a dull, yet cross-looking pony, Mr. Wormwood, of bitter memory. Although we had not met since our mutual sojourn at Sir Lionel Garratt’s, and were then upon very cool terms of acquaintance, he seemed resolved to recognize and claim me.
“My dear Sir,” said he, with a ghastly smile, “I am rejoiced once more to see you; bless me, how pale you look. I heard you had been very ill. Pray have you been yet to that man who professes to cure consumption in the worst stages?”
“Yes,” said I, “he read me two or three letters of reference from the patients he had cured. His last, he said, was a gentleman very far gone; a Mr. Wormwood.”
“Oh, you are pleased to be facetious,” said the cynic, coldly—“but pray do tell me about that horrid affair at Chester Park. How disagreeable it must have been to you to be taken up on suspicion of the murder.”
“Sir,” said I, haughtily, “what do you mean?”
“Oh, you were not—wern’t you? Well, I always thought it unlikely; but every one says so—”