The bishop nodded significantly, and sipped his wine. There was now a pause. This was the great topic of the day, and yet, up to this moment, not even a chance allusion to politics had been dropped, and all recoiled from adventuring, even by a word, on a theme which might lead to disagreement or discordance. Old Hickman, however, dated his origin in life too far back for such scruples, and, leaning across the table, said, with an accent to which wine imparted a tone of peculiar cunning, “I wish you well through it, my Lord; for, by all accounts, it is dirty work.”
The roar of laughter that followed the speech actually shook the table, Lord Castlereagh giving way to it with as much zest as the guests themselves. Twice he essayed to speak, but each time a fresh burst of mirth interrupted him, while old Hickman, unable to divine the source of the merriment, stared at each person in turn, and at last muttered his consolatory “Ay,” but with a voice that showed he was far from feeling satisfied.
“I wish you'd made that speech in the House, Mr. Hickman,” said Lord Drogheda; “I do believe you'd have been the most popular man in Ireland.”
“I confess,” said Lord Castlereagh, wiping his eyes, “I cannot conceive a more dangerous opponent to the Bill.”
“If he held your own bill, with a protest on it,” whispered Hamilton, “your opinion would not be easily gainsaid.”
“May I ask for a cup of coffee?” said the bishop, rising, for he saw that although as yet no untoward results had followed, at any moment something unpleasant might occur. The party rose with him, and adjourned to the drawing-room.
“Singular old man!” said Lord Castlereagh, in a whisper to the Knight. “Shrewd and cunning, no doubt, but scarcely calculated, as our friend Drogheda thinks, to distinguish himself in the House of Commons.”
“Do you think the Upper House would suit him better, my Lord?” said Darcy, slyly.
“I see, Knight,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing, “you have caught up the popular joke of the day.”
“I trust, my Lord, it may be no more than a joke.”