“Yes; he is tired of India,—tired of soldiering, I believe. If he can't manage an exchange into some regiment at home, I think he 'll sell out.”
“By Jove!” said the old lawyer, speaking to himself, but still aloud, “the world has taken a strange turn of late. The men that used to have dash and energy have become loungers and idlers, and the energy—the real energy of the nation—has centred in the women,—the women and the priests! If I'm not much mistaken, we shall see some rare specimens of enthusiasm erelong. Such elements as these will not slumber nor sleep!”
While Martin was pondering over this speech, a servant entered to say that Mr. Crow was without, and begged to know if he might pay his respects. “Ay, by all means. Tell him to come in,” said Martin. And the words were scarcely uttered when the artist made his appearance, in full dinner costume, and with a certain unsteadiness in his gait, and a restless look in his eyes, that indicated his having indulged freely, without, however, having passed the barrier of sobriety.
“You heard of our arrival, then?” said Martin, after the other had paid his respects, and assumed a seat.
“Yes, sir. It was mentioned to-day at dinner, and so I resolved that, when I could manage to step away, I'd just drop in and ask how her Ladyship and yourself were.”
“Where did you dine, Crow?”
“At the Chief Secretary's, sir, in the Park,” replied Crow, with a mixture of pride and bash fulness.
“Ah, indeed. Was your party a large one?”
“There were fourteen of us, sir, but I only knew three or four of the number.”
“And who were they, Crow?” said Repton, whose curiosity on all such topics was extreme.