“And do you mean to tell me, sir,” said Lady Lacking-ton, “that this is the notorious Captain Davis of whose doings we have been reading in every newspaper?”
“Yes, my Lady, he is the notorious”—he was going to say “Grog,” but corrected himself, and added—“Captain Davis, and has been for years back the intimate associate of the present Lord Lackington.”
Mr. Spicer was really enjoying himself on this occasion, nor was it often his fortune to give her Ladyship so much annoyance innocuously. His self-indulgence, however, carried him too far; for Lady Lackington, suddenly turning round, caught the expression of gratified malice on his face.
“Take care, sir,—take care,” she cried, with a menacing gesture of her finger. “There may chance to be a flaw somewhere in your narrative; and if there should, Mr. Spicer,—if there should,—I don't think Lord Lackington would forget it,—I am sure I sha'n't.” And with this threatening declaration her Ladyship swept out of the room in most haughty fashion.
“This is all what comes of being obliging,” exclaimed Spicer, unable to control himself any longer. “It was not I that threw Beecher into Grog's company,—it was not I that made him marry Grog's daughter. For all that I cared, he might go and be a monk at La Trappe, or marry as many wives as Brigham Young himself.”
“I hope you brought me Lady Gertrude Oscot's book, Mr. Spicer,—'Rays through Oriel Windows'?” said Lady Grace, in one of her sweetest voices. “She is such a charming poetess.”
“I'd lay my life on't, she's just as wide-awake as her father,” muttered Spicer to himself.
“As wide-awake? Dear me, what can you mean?”
“That's she's fly—up to trap—oh, is n't she!” went he on, still communing to himself.
“Lady Gertrude Oscot, sir?”