“I believe, my Lord,” said Heffernan, abandoning the figure in his anxiety to reply, “that we would call this dull in Ireland. I 'm afraid that we are barbarous enough to set more store by wit and pleasantry than on grave discussion and shrewd table-talk. It appears to me that these gentlemen carry an air of business into their conviviality.”
“Scarcely so dangerous an error as to carry conviviality into business,” said Lord Castlereagh, slyly.
“There's too much holding back,” said Heffernan, not heeding the taunt; “each man seems bent on making what jockeys call 'a waiting race.'”
“Confess, however,” said Lord Castlereagh, smiling, “there 's no struggle, no hustling at the winning-post: the best horse comes in first—-”
“Upon my soul, my Lord,” said Heffernan, interrupting, “I have yet to learn that there is such a thing. I conclude from your Lordship's observation that the company we met to-day were above the ordinary run of agreeability.”
“I should certainly say so.”
“Well, then, I can only affirm that we should call this a failure in our less polished land. I listened with becoming attention; the whole thing was new to me, and I can safely aver I neither heard one remark above the level of commonplace, nor one observation evidencing acute perception of passing events or reflection on the past. As to wit or epigram—”
“Oh, we do not value these gifts at your price; we are too thrifty a nation, Heffernan, to expend all our powder on fireworks.”
“Faith, I agree with you, my Lord; the man who would venture on a rocket would be treated as an incendiary.”
“Come, come, Heffernan, I 'll not permit you to say so. Did you ever in any society see a man more appreciated than our friend Darcy was the last evening we met him, his pleasantry relished, his racy humor well taken, and his stores of anecdote enjoyed with a degree of zest I have never seen surpassed?”