‘Only that! Why, they are the two things nobody can get. Power cannot have them, nor money buy them. The retired tradesman—I beg his pardon, the cheesemonger—he is always a cheesemonger now who represents vulgarity and bank-stock—he may have his rest and quiet; but a Minister must not dream of such a luxury, nor any one who serves a Minister. Where’s the quiet to come from, I ask you, after such a tirade of abuse as that?’ And he pointed to the Times. ‘There’s Punch, too, with a picture of me measuring out “Danesbury’s drops to cure loyalty.” That slim youth handing the spoon is meant for you, Walpole.’
‘Perhaps so, my lord,’ said he coldly.
‘They haven’t given you too much leg, Cecil,’ said the other, laughing; but Cecil scarcely relished the joke.
‘I say, Piccadilly is scarcely the place for a man after that: I mean, of course, for a while,’ continued he. ‘These things are not eternal; they have their day. They had me last week travelling in Ireland on a camel; and I was made to say, “That the air of the desert always did me good!” Poor fun, was it not?’
‘Very poor fun indeed!’
‘And you were the boy preparing my chibouque; and, I must say, devilish like.’
‘I did not see it, my lord.’
‘That’s the best way. Don’t look at the caricatures; don’t read the Saturday Review; never know there is anything wrong with you; nor, if you can, that anything disagrees with you.’
‘I should like the last delusion best of all,’ said he.
‘Who would not?’ cried the old lord. ‘The way I used to eat potted prawns at Eton, and peach jam after them, and iced guavas, and never felt better! And now everything gives acidity.’