Linton looked like one who divided himself between rebuke and conviction,—submissive, but yet satisfied.
“Give me your arm, Linton; I'm still very far from strong,—this place disagrees with me. I fancy the air is rheumatic, and I am impatient to get away; but the fact is, I have been lingering in the hope of receiving some tidings from the Foreign Office, which I had rather would reach me here than at my own house.”
“Precisely, my Lord; the request, then, has the air—I mean it shows you have been sought after by the Minister, and solicited to take office when not thinking of the matter yourself.”
“Quite so; I open the despatch, as it may be, at the breakfast-table, jocularly observing that it looks official, eh?”
“Exactly, my Lord; you even surmise that it may prove an appointment you have solicited for one of your numerous protégés,—something in the Colonies, or the 'troop,' without purchase, in the Blues?”
Lord Kilgoff laughed—for him, heartily—at Linton's concurrence in his humor, and went on,—
“And when I open it, Linton, and read the contents, eh?”
Here he paused, as if asking what effect his astute friend would ascribe to such pleasant tidings.
“I think I see your Lordship throw the heavy packet from you with a 'pshaw!' of disappointment; while you mutter to your next neighbor, 'I have been warding off this these two or three last years; but there's no help for it: the King insists upon my taking the mission at Florence!'”
“I must say, Mr. Linton, your conjecture strikes me as strained and unnatural. The appointment to represent my august master at the court of Tuscany might be a worthy object of my ambition. I cannot agree with the view you take of it.”