“He becomes 'impossible' also,” said she, laughing.
“Are we to imagine that a man of such intelligence as he possesses cannot concede something to circumstances,—cannot make allowances for the exigencies of 'party,'—cannot, in fact, take any other view of a difficulty but the one that must respond to his own will?”
“Yes; I think that is exactly what you are called on to imagine. You are to persuade yourself to regard this earth as inhabited by the Chief Baron, and some other people not mentioned specifically in the census.”
“He is most unreasonable, then.”
“Of course he is; but I wouldn't have you tell him so. You see, Mr. Balfour, the Chief imagines all this while that he is maintaining and upholding the privileges of the Irish Bar. The burden of his song is, 'There would have been no objection to my claim had I been the Chief Baron of the English Court.'”
“Possibly,” murmured Balfour; and then, lower again, “Fleas are not—”
“Quite true,” said she, for her quick ear caught his words,—“quite true. Fleas are not lobsters,—bless their souls! But, as I said before, I 'd not remind them of that fact. 'The Fleas' are just sore enough upon it already.”
Balfour for once felt some confusion. He saw what a slip he had made, and now it had damaged his whole negotiation. Nothing but boldness would avail now, and he resolved to be bold.
“There is a thing has been done in England, and I don't see why we might not attempt it in the present case. A great lawyer there obtained a peerage for his wife—”
She burst out into a fit of laughter at this, at once so hearty and so natural that at last he could not help joining, and laughing too.