“Yes, he 's here, fresh painted and lacquered; his eyes twinkling with a mock lustre that makes him look like an old po'-chaise with a pair of new lamps!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Sir Horace, encouragingly.
“And then—there's Mabworth.”
“Sir Paul Mabworth?”
“Ay, the same old bore as ever! He has got off one of Burke's speeches on the India Bill by heart, and says that he spoke it on the question of the grant for Maynooth. Oh, if poor Burke could only look up!”
“Look down! you ought to say, Scaresby; depend upon't, he 's not on the Opposition benches still!”
“I hate the fellow,” said Scaresby, whose ill-temper was always augmented by any attempted smartness of those he conversed with. “He has taken Walmsley's cook away from him, and never gives any one a dinner.”
“That is shameful; a perfect dog in the manger!”
“Worse; he 's a dog without any manger! For he keeps his house on board-wages, and there's literally nothing to eat! That poor thing, Strejowsky.”
“Oh, Olga Strejowsky, do you mean? What of her?”