“What are you raving about, caro Pipo?” said the Minister; “what is all this long story of Baia and the fish?”
“Has your Excellency forgotten that we have a grand dinner to-day, at eight o'clock; that the Prince Maximilian of Bavaria and all the foreign ambassadors are invited?”
“Is this Saturday, Pipo?” said Sir Horace, blandly.
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“Send Mr. Brockett to me,” said Sir Horace, as he slowly mounted the stairs to his own apartment.
Sir Horace was stretched on a sofa, in all the easy luxury of magnificent dressing-gown and slippers, when Mr. Brockett entered; and without any preliminary of greeting he said, with a quiet laugh, “You have let me forget all about the dinner to-day, Brockett!”
“I thought you knew it; you took great trouble about the persons to be asked, and you canvassed whether the Duc de Borodino, being only a Chargé d'Affaires—”
“There, there; don't you see the—the inappropriateness of what you are doing? Even in England a man is not asked to criminate himself. How many are coming?”
“Nineteen; the 'Nonce' is ill, and has sent an apology.”
“Then the party can be eighteen, Brockett; you must tell them that I am ill,—too ill to come to dinner. I know the Prince Max very well,—he 'll not take it badly; and as to Cineselli, we shall see what humor he is in!”