“Well, it's a long lane has no turning, Spicer,” said he, oomplacently looking at himself in the glass. “Even a runaway pulls up somewhere; not but I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart for poor Lack, but it will be our own turn one of these days; that's a match there's no paying forfeit on, eh, Spicer? it must come off whether we will or not!”
“So it must, my Lord,” sighed out Spicer, sympathetically.
“Ay, by Jove! whether a man leaves twelve thousand a year or only two hundred behind him,” sighed out Beecher, who could not help making the application to himself.
Again did Spicer sigh, and so profoundly, it might have represented grief for the whole peerage.
“I say, old fellow,” said Beecher, clapping him familiarly on the shoulder, “I wish you had n't told Georgy all that stuff about Davis; these things do no good.”
“I assure you solemnly, my Lord, I said it with the best motives; her Ladyship would certainly learn the whole history somewhere, and so I thought I 'd just sketch the thing off in a light, easy way.”
“Come, come, Spicer,—no gammon, my lad; you never tried any of your light, easy ways with my sister-in-law. At all events, it's done, and can't be undone now,” sighed he, drearily. Then, after a moment, he added, “How did she take the news?”
“Well, at first, my Lord, she wouldn't believe it, but went on, 'She's not his wife, sir; I tell you they're not married,' and so on.”
“Well,—and then?”
“Then, my Lord, I assured her that there could be no doubt of the matter; that your Lordship had done me the honor of presenting me—”