“Shocking ill. If I were you, I should take the Chiltern Hundreds. When I say, Chiltern Hundreds, I mean medical advice; if not, Parliament will kill you. Kill a bullock; when I say a bullock, I don’t mean that you’re a”—
“Sir Arthur Hodmadod,” roared Jericho; and the baronet was in a tremor, for he had not, though he had industriously essayed, talked himself into courage. “Sir Arthur!” Mrs. Jericho was in new twitters, and Agatha, about to faint, crept closer to her love—“Sir Arthur, I say.”
“Well, sir,” answered the baronet very tremulously.
“I believe you marry that young lady to-morrow?”
“It is my rapturous destiny,” said Hodmadod, affecting a smile.—“When I say rapturous”—
“I know,” roared the Man of Money, with his best brutality. “Now, understand, once and for all, if I permit a jackass to marry into my family, I do not suffer him always to bray to me.” And with this Mr. Jericho stalked from the room.
“Jackass!” exclaimed Hodmadod—“I must have this explained. When he says jackass of course he means”—
“Oh, dear no!” cried Mrs. Jericho, crushing the inference in its shell—its goose-shell.
“Not for a moment, Arthur; don’t believe it,” interposed Agatha; and, at the touch of her hand, the lion-hearted Arthur dropt his mane, and the wrathful fire died in his pacific eyes.
“It’s all the debates,” cried Mrs. Jericho. “They’re wearing him to a shadow. He’ll never be himself so long as he’s in that horrid Commons. He must retire into the Upper House. He’s losing all his substance in Acts of Parliament. And what—what indeed does anybody care? Except ourselves,” said Mrs. Jericho, with self-correction—“except ourselves. And, dear Sir Arthur, I know your friendship—I know your sympathy: that Mr. Jericho, in all his trials, in all his anxieties for the country, that he may always depend upon.”