“Not in the least, Sir. I neither shoot, ride, nor fish.”
“Nor do I, and yet I like a country life, as a sort of interlude in existence.”
“With a house like this, Sir Within, what life can compare with it?”
“One can at least have tranquillity,” sighed Sir Within, with an air that made it difficult to say whether he considered it a blessing or the reverse.
“There ought to be a good neighbourhood, too, I should say. I passed some handsome places as I came along.”
“Yes, there are people on every hand, excellent people, I have not a doubt; but they neither suit me, nor I them. Their ways are not mine, nor are their ideas, their instincts, nor their prejudices. The world, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay, is, unfortunately, wider than a Welsh county, though they will not believe it here.”
“You mean, then, Sir Within, that they are local, and narrow-minded in their notions?”
“I don’t like to say that, any more than I like to hear myself called a libertine; but I suppose, after all, it is what we both come to.” The air of self-accusation made the old envoy perfectly triumphant, and, as he passed his hand across his brow and smiled blandly, he seemed to be recalling to mind innumerable successes of the past. “To say truth, diplomacy is not the school for dévots.”
“I should think not, indeed, Sir,” said M’Kinlay.
“And that is what these worthy folk cannot or will not see. Wounds and scars are the necessary incidents of a soldier’s life; but people will not admit that there are moral injuries which form the accidents of a minister’s life, and to which he must expose himself as fearlessly as any soldier that ever marched to battle. What do these excellent creatures here—who have never experienced a more exciting scene than a cattle-show, nor faced a more captivating incident than a Bishop’s visitation—know of the trials, the seductions—the irresistible seductions of the great world? Ah, Mr. M’Kinlay, I could lay bare a very strange chapter of humanity, were I to tell even one-fourth of my own experiences.”