“His memory is the most singular thing about him,” said Heffernan. “Now, the account of Swift's appearance in the pulpit with his gown thrust back, and his hands stuck in the belt of his cassock, brow-beating the lord mayor and aldermen for coming in late to church,—it came as fresh as if he were talking of an event of last week.”
“How good the imitation of voice was, too,” added Heffernan: “'Giving two hours to your dress, and twenty minutes to your devotions, you come into God's house looking more like mountebanks than Christian men!'”
“I 've seldom seen him so much inclined to talk and chat away as this evening,” said O'Reilly; “but I think you chimed in so well with his humor, it drew him on.”
“There was something of dexterity,” said Heffernan, “in the way he kept bringing up these reminiscences and old stories, to avoid entering upon the subject of the election. I saw that he would n't approach that theme, no matter how skilfully you brought it forward.”
“You ought not to have alluded to the Darcys, however,” said O'Halloran. “I remarked that the mention of their name gave him evident displeasure; indeed, he soon after pushed his chair back from the table and became silent.”
“He always sleeps after dinner,” observed O'Reilly, carelessly. “It was about his usual time.”
Another pause now succeeded, in which the only sounds heard were the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeper.
“You saw Lord Castlereagh, I think you told me?” said O'Reilly, anxious to lead Heffernan into something like a declaration of opinion.
“Oh, repeatedly; I dined either with him or in his company, three or four times every week of my stay in town.”
“Well, is he satisfied with the success of his measure?” asked O'Halloran, caustically. “Is this Union working to his heart's content?”