“Rabirius, wanting his servant Syrus to get up,” quoth my father, “cried out to him to move. ‘I do move,’ said Syrus. ‘I see you move,’ replied Rabirius, ‘but you move nothing.’ To return to the saffron bag—”
“Confound the saffron bag!” cried Trevanion, in a rage; and then softening his look as he drew on his gloves, he turned to my mother and said, with more politeness than was natural to, or at least customary with, him,—
“By the way, my dear Mrs. Caxton, I should tell you that Lady Ellinor comes to town to-morrow on purpose to call on you. We shall be here some little time, Austin; and though London is so empty, there are still some persons of note to whom I should like to introduce you and yours—”
“Nay,” said my father; “your world and my world are not the same. Books for me, and men for you. Neither Kitty nor I can change our habits, even for friendship: she has a great piece of work to finish, and so have I. Mountains cannot stir, especially when in labor; but Mahomet can come to the mountain as often as he likes.”
Mr. Trevanion insisted, and Sir Sedley Beaudesert mildly put in his own claims; both boasted acquaintance with literary men whom my father would, at all events, be pleased to meet. My father doubted whether he could meet any literary men more eloquent than Cicero, or more amusing than Aristophanes; and observed that if such did exist, he would rather meet them in their books than in a drawing-room. In fine, he was immovable; and so also, with less argument, was Captain Roland.
Then Mr. Trevanion turned to me.
“Your son, at all events, should see something of the world.”
My mother’s soft eye sparkled.
“My dear friend, I thank you,” said my father, touched; “and Pisistratus and I will talk it over.”
Our guests had departed. All four of us gathered to the open window, and enjoyed in silence the cool air and the moonlight.