“No, my Lord, he 'comes down,' which is what the uncle does not; and as he stands between Ecclesmere and the Marquisate—”
“That's what I've always maintained,” said the bishop to Lord Castlereagh. “The potato disposes to acidity. I know the poor people correct that by avoiding animal food,—a most invaluable fact.”
“There are good grounds for your remark,” said Lord Castlereagh to the Knight, while he smiled an easy assent to the bishop, without attending to him, “and the social relations of the country will demand the earliest care of the Government whenever measures of immediate importance permit this consideration. We have been unfortunate in not drawing closer to us men who, like yourself, are thoroughly acquainted with the condition of the people generally. It is not too late—”
“Too late for what?” interrupted Lord Drogheda. “Not too late for more claret, I trust; and the decanter has been standing opposite to me these ten minutes.”
“A thousand pardons!—O'Reilly, will you touch that bell? Thanks.”
The tone of easy familiarity with which he spoke covered Hickman with a flush of ecstatic pleasure.
“They ginger them up so, nowadays,” said Lord Loughdooner to Beecham O'Reilly.
“Ginger!” chimed in Hickman,—“the devil a finer thing for the stomach. I ask your pardon, my Lord, for saying his name, but I 'll give you a receipt for the windy bile worth a guinea-note.”
“Take a pinch of snuff, Dr. Hickman,” said Lord Castle-reagh, who saw the mortification of the two generations at the old man's vulgarity.
“Thank you, my Lord. 'Tis blackguard I like best: them brown snuffs ruins the nose entirely.—I was saying about the mixture,” said he, addressing the bishop. “Take a pint of infusion of gentian, and put a pinch of coriander seeds, and the peel of a Chaney orange—”