“Mr. Beed has gone, my Lord,—started with the Vienna bag.”
“Make Butler supernumerary.”
“There are four already, my Lord.”
“I don't care if there were forty, Mr. Brand! Go and pass your examination, young gentleman, and thank Sir Harry Elphinstone, for this nomination is at his request. I am only sorry you didn't kick Willis.” And with this parting speech he turned away, and hopped downstairs to his brougham, with the light step and jaunty air of a man of thirty.
Scarcely was the door closed, when Baynes and Brand retired into a window recess, conversing in lowest whispers and with much head-shaking. To what a frightful condition the country must come—any country must come—when administered by men of such levity, who make a sport of its interests, and a practical joke of its patronage—was the theme over which they now mourned in common.
“Are you going to make a minute of this appointment, Brand?” asked Baynes. “I declare I 'd not do it.”
The other pursed up his lips and leaned his head to one side, as though to imply that such a course would be a bold one.
“Will you put his name on your list?”
“I don't know,” muttered the other. “I suspect we can do it better. Where have you been educated, Mr. Butler?”
“At home, principally.”