“He said he 'd give up the search entirely. 'There 's no such bad hunting country,' said he, 'as where there's too many foxes, and so I determined I 'd have no more Penthony Morrises, but just go in for the widow without any more inquiry.'”
“And have you heard the plan of his campaign?” asked she.
“He has none,—at least, I think not. He trusts to his own attractions and some encouragement formerly held out to him.”
“Indiscreet wretch!” said she, laughing; “not but he told the truth there. I remember having given him something like what lawyers call a retainer.”
“Such a man might be very troublesome, Loo,” said he, cautiously.
“Not a bit of it, papa; he might be very useful, on the contrary. Indeed, I'm' not quite certain that I have not exactly the very service on which to employ him.”
“Remember, Loo,” said he, warmly, “he's a shrewd fellow in his way.”
“In his way' he is, but his way is not mine,” said she, with a saucy toss of the head. “Have you any idea, papa, of what may be the sort of place or employment he looks for? Is he ambitious, or has adversity taught him humility?”
“A good deal depends upon the time of the day when one talks to him. Of a morning he is usually downcast and depressed; he 'd go out as a magistrate to the Bahamas or consul to a Poyais republic. Towards dinner-time he grows more difficult and pretentious; and when he has got three or four glasses of wine in, he would n't take less than the Governorship of a colony.”
“Then it's of an evening one should see him.”