“No; but Grog Davis's daughter,—the new Viscountess Lackington,—my Lady. I was thinking of her,” said Spicer, suddenly recalled to a sense of where he stood.
“I protest, sir, I cannot understand how two persons so totally dissimilar could occur to any mind at the same moment.” And with this Lady Grace gathered up the details of her embroidery, and courtesying a deep and formal adieu, left the room.
“Haven't I gone and done it with both of them!” said Spicer, as he took out his cigar-case to choose a cigar; not that he had the slightest intention of lighting it in such a place,—no profanity of the kind ever occurred to him,—all he meant was the mock bravado to himself of an act that seemed to imply so much coolness, such collected courage. As to striking a light, he 'd as soon have done it in a magazine.
And sticking his cigar in his mouth, he left the house; even in the street he forgot to light it, and strolled along, turning his weed between his lips, and revolving no very pleasant thoughts in his mind: “All the way to England, down to Wales, then the Isle of Wight, seeing no end of people,—lawyers, milliners, agents, proctors, jewellers, and dressmakers—eternal explainings and expostulatings, begging for this, deprecating that; asking this man to be active and the other to be patient; and then back again over the whole breadth of Europe in atrocious weather, sea-sick and land-sick, tossed, Jolted, and shaken,—and all for what,—ay, for what? To be snubbed, outraged, and insulted, treated like a lackey,—no, but ten times worse than any lackey would bear. And why should I bear it? That's the question. Why should I? Does it signify a brass farthing to me whether the noble house of Lackington quarters its arms with the cogged dice and the marked king of the Davises? What do I care about their tarnished shield? It's rather cool of my lady to turn upon me!” Well reasoned and true, Mr. Spicer; you have but forgotten one small item in the account, which is the consideration accorded to you by your own set, because you were seen to mingle with those so much above you.
We are told that when farthings are shaken up a sufficiently long time with guineas in a bag, they acquire a sort of yellow lustre, which, though by no means enabling them to pass for guineas, still makes them wonderfully bright farthings, and doubtless would render them very intolerant in the company of their equals. Such was, in a measure, what had happened to Mr. Spicer; and though at first sight the process would seem a gain, it is in reality the reverse, since, after this mock gilding, the coin—whether it be man or farthing—has lost its stamp of truthfulness, and will not “pass” for even the humble value it once represented.
“At all events,” thought Mr. Spicer, as he went along, “her Ladyship has not come off scot free for all her impertinence. I have given her materials for a very miserable morning, and irritated the very sorest spot in all her mind. It was just the very lesson she wanted; there's nothing will do her so much good in the world.”
It is by no means an uncommon delusion for ill-natured people to fancy that they are great moral physicians, and that the bitters they drop into your wine-glass and my teacup are admirable tonics, which our constitutions require. The drug is not always an evil, but the doctor is detestable.
As Spicer drew nigh one of the great hotels in the Piazza di Spagna, he recognized Beecher's travelling-carriage just being unloaded at the door. They had arrived at that moment, and the courier was bustling about and giving his orders like one whose master was likely to exact much and pay handsomely.
“The whole of the first floor, Freytag,” said the courier, authoritatively; “every room of it. My Lord cannot bear the disturbance of people lodged near him.”
“He used not to be so particular in the 'Bench,'” muttered Spicer. “I remember his sleeping one of three in a room.”