“I think I can lay my hand on a letter. I am almost certain I had one from a law-agent, called—called—”
“Bicknell, perhaps,” interrupted Forester, blushing between shame and impatience.
“Quite right,—you are quite right,” replied Lord Netherby, with a significant glance at Lord Castlereagh, cunningly intended to draw off attention from himself. “Well, Mr. Bicknell wrote to me a very tiresome and complicated epistle about law affairs,—motions, rules, and so forth,—and mentioned at the end that Lady Eleanor and Helen were living in some remote village on the northern coast.”
“A cottage called 'The Corvy,'” broke in Forester, “kindly lent to them by an old friend, Mr. Bagenal Daly.”
“Will that address suffice,” said Lord Castlereagh, “with the name of the nearest post-town?”
“If you will make me the postman, I 'll vouch for the safe delivery,” said Forester, with an animation that made him flushed and pale within the same instant.
“My dear young friend, my dear Lord Wallincourt!” exclaimed Lord Netherby, laying his hand upon his arm. He said no more; indeed he firmly believed the enunciation of his new title must be quite sufficient to recall him to a sense of due consideration for himself.
“You are scarcely strong enough, Dick,” said Lord Castlereagh, coolly. “It is a somewhat long journey for an invalid; and Halford, I 'm sure, wouldn't agree to it.”
“I 'm quite strong enough,” said Forester, rising and pacing the room with an attempted vigor that made his debility seem still more remarkable: “if not to-day, I shall be to-morrow. The travelling, besides, will serve me,—change of air and scene. More than all, I am determined on doing it.”
“Not if I refuse you the despatches, I suppose?” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing.