“You have always so many irons in the fire, Abbé, that it requires some skill to keep them all hot.”
“You are right, my Lord; some skill, and some practice too.”
“And do you never burn your fingers?” said the other, sarcastically.
“Very rarely, my Lord; for when I meddle with fire, I generally make use of my friends' hands.”
“By Jove, it's not a bad plan!” cried the Viscount, laughing; for, as the priest well knew, he had a most lively appreciation for every species of knavery, and entertained real respect for all who practised it. “You are a very downy cove, Master D'Esmonde,” said he, gazing at him; “and you 'd have made a very shining figure on the Turf, had your fortune thrown you in that direction.”
“Perhaps so, my Lord,” said the Abbé, carelessly. “My own notion is, that fair natural gifts are equal to any exigencies ever demanded of us; and that the man of average talent, if he have only energy and a strong will, has no superior to dread.”
“That may do well enough,” said Norwood, rising and pacing the room,—“that may do well enough in the common occurrences of life, but it won't do on the Turf, Abbé. The fellows are too artful for you there. There are too many dodges and tricks and windings. No, no, believe me; nothing has a chance in racing matters, without perfect and safe 'information;' you know what that means.”
“It is precisely the same thing in the world at large,” said D'Esmonde. “The very cleverest men rush into embarrassments and involve themselves in difficulties for which there is no issue, simply for want of what you call 'information.' Even yourself, my Lord,” said he, dropping his voice to a low and distinct whisper,—“even yourself may discover that you owe safety to a Popish priest.”
“How do you mean? What do you allude to?” cried Norwood, eagerly.
“Sit down here, my Lord. Give me a patient hearing for a few minutes. We have fortunately a moment of unbroken confidence now; let us profit by it.”