“She would gladly welcome the change you speak of.” said the Secretary.
“I'm not so sure of that, sir; you have not already shown yourselves so very tolerant when tried. It is but a few years ago, and your bar rebelled at the thought of an Irishman being made Master of the Rolls in England, and that Irishman, Plunkett.”
“I must say,” burst in the Attorney-General, fresh from his first session in Parliament, and, more still, his first season in town, “this is but a prejudice,—an unjust prejudice. I can assert for myself that I never rose in the House without experiencing a degree of attention,—a deference, in short—”
“Eminently the right of one whose opinions were so valuable,” said the Secretary, bowing blandly, and smiling.
“You did not lash them too often nor too much, Hutchard,” said the dark man. “If I remember aright, you rose once in the session, and that was to move an adjournment.”
“Ah, Lindley,” said the other, good-humoredly, “you are an unforgiving enemy.” Then, turning to the Chief Secretary, he said: “He cannot pardon my efforts, successful as they have been, to enable the Fellows of the University to marry. He obtained his fellowship as a safe retirement, and now discovers that his immunity is worth nothing.”
“I beg pardon,” said Lindley; “I have forgiven you long ago. It was from your arguments in its favor the measure was so long resisted. You are really blameless in the matter!”
The sharp give and take of these sallies—the fruit of those intimacies which small localities produce—rather astonished the English officials, and the Secretary and the Commissioner exchanged glances of significant import; nor was this lost on the Chief Baron, who, to change the topic, suddenly asked,—
“Who bought that estate—Kellett's Court, I think they call it—was sold this morning?”
“I purchased it in trust,” said Dunn, “for an English peer.”