“At eight you say. And where”—Jericho felt a little dizzy—“where the place?”
“The best, the noblest, the most heroic spot,” said Candituft. “Battersea-Fields, of course.”
“Humph! I thought Wimbledon was more genteel,” observed Jericho, wanderingly.
“It was: but surely, my dear sir, you can’t forget. The Duke himself—the immortal Wellington, has thrown an undying lustre upon Battersea-Fields.”
“I recollect,” said Jericho. “Of course—to be sure he has.”
“Such being the case, I suffer no friend of mine to receive any man’s fire on any meaner ground. For my own part, I have always considered Battersea-Fields, as a sort of battle-field-of-ease to Waterloo. Possibly, my dear friend, the same thought may have struck you.”
“I can’t say that it has”—replied Jericho—“but I shall remember it for the future no doubt.”
“And now, my dear Solomon”—Jericho winced at the affectionate familiarity; there sounded in it a raven note—“my dear friend, you may have a few matters to settle. You may have to speak to Mrs. Jericho”—
“Why, I mus’n’t tell her of it!” asked Jericho.
“Not for ten thousand worlds! it would spoil all. We know what women are, dear creatures! They smell powder, and they scream police.” Mr. Jericho never felt a warmer admiration of the wisdom of the sex. “Not a word to Mrs. Jericho. Nevertheless you may manage indirectly to convey certain wishes. I’ve said enough. Adieu; I’ll not fail at seven, to the minute. Good bye,” and the friend and philanthropist took an affectionate leave.