Alas! that was an illusive “imagining,” as the poets of the nineteenth century unaffectedly express themselves. Messrs. Fudge & Fidget were never out to such clients as the Marquis of Castleton; with a deep sigh, and an altered expression of face, the Victim of Fortune slowly descended the steps of the carriage.
“I can’t ask you to wait for me,” said he; “Heaven only knows how long I shall be kept! Take the carriage where you will, and send it back to me.”
“A thousand thanks, my dear lord, I would rather walk. But you will let me call on you before I leave town.”
“Let you!—I insist on it. I am still at the old quarters,—under pretence,” said the marquis, with a sly twinkle of the eyelid, “that Castleton House wants painting!”
“At twelve to-morrow, then?”
“Twelve to-morrow! Alas! that’s just the hour at which Mr. Screw, the agent for the London property (two squares, seven streets, and a lane!) is to call.”
“Perhaps two o’clock will suit you better?”
“Two! just the hour at which Mr. Plausible, one of the Castleton members, insists upon telling me why his conscience will not let him vote with Trevanion!”
“Three o’clock?”
“Three! just the hour at which I am to see the secretary of the Treasury, who has promised to relieve Mr. Plausible’s conscience! But come and dine with me,—you will meet the executors to the will!”