“You are wonderful!” exclaimed Kellett, who really did all but worship the worldly wisdom of his friend.
“I 'd ask Lackington, but he 's no use to any one. Just look at my own case.” And now he launched forth into the theme he really loved and never found wearisome. His capacity for anything—everything, his exact fitness for fifty opposite duties, his readiness to be a sinecurist, and his actual necessity for a salary, were subjects he could be eloquent on; devoting occasional passing remarks to Lackington's intense stupidity, who never exerted himself for him, and actually “thought him a flat.” “I know you won't believe—but he does, I assure you—he thinks me a flat!”
Before Kellett could fully rally from the astounding force of such an unjustifiable opinion, his guest, Conway, knocked at the door.
“I say, Kellett, there comes an apology from your friend.”
“How so?” asked Kellett, eagerly.
“I just saw a soldier come up to the door, and the chances are it 's an officer's servant with a note of excuse.”
The door opened as he spoke, and Conway entered the room. Kellett met him with an honest cordiality, and then, turning to Beecher, said,—
“My son's friend and comrade,—Mr. Annesley Beecher;” and the two men bowed to each other, and exchanged glances that scarcely indicated much pleasure at the acquaintance.
“Why, he 's in the ranks, Kellett,” whispered Beecher, as he drew him into the window.
“So is my son,” said Kellett, with a gulp that half choked him.