“In your connection with Mr. Jericho, you have a grand field before you,” said the unoffended Mizzlemist.
“Humph! Can you tell me if the field’s in crop? And what it is?” asked Basil.
“Whatever you like, sir. I am afraid, Mr. Pennibacker”—and Mizzlemist became very serious—“I am afraid you do not sufficiently estimate the position of Mr. Jericho. See what he has done already. Is he not in Parliament? Is he not in the very highest society? Next Tuesday—yes, absolutely next Tuesday—he dines with the Duke St. George, at Red Dragon House; and with his inestimable lady and daughters will, at once, be dipped in the Pactolean vortex—if I’ve not forgot my Christchurch classics—in the Pactolean vortex of fashionable existence.”
“Well, and what will Mr. Jericho pay? What, for self, wife and daughters?” asked Basil, “what will be the price of admission to the Red Dragon mahogany?”
“Price, Mr. Pennibacker!” cried Mizzlemist.
“Price. Why, you can’t tell; neither can Jericho himself. More than that, I’ve my doubts, if even the Duke of St. George has made up his mind to the exact sum to be borrowed of the Man of Money. It must be for a loan, or do folks think money, like the measles, catching? The Duke St. George, of Red Dragon House! Why, he’s a very river of royal blood. From the heptarchy downwards, there’s been a prince or a princess, or a royal bishop, or something of the sort, cut into the stream—and he contains in himself the very best blood, laid on from twenty crowned houses. And to think that he should shake hands with Jericho—that he should invite such a piece of clay—why it must be for the gilding.”
“My dear young gentleman,” said Mizzlemist, with a gravity almost affectionate, “disabuse your mind of such vulgar cant. Be above it, sir. Don’t think that money can do anything and everything—it can’t. There must be inward worth. The gold candlestick—if I may be so bold as to use a figure—the gold candlestick may be prized I grant; but its magnificence is only subservient to its use; the gold is very well: but after all, it is the light we look to.” And Mizzlemist believed he had clenched the question.
“Yes,” said Basil; “so that the candlestick has gold enough, I take it, it may burn anything—mutton fat’s as good as wax.”
“I say again, don’t think it. Mr. Jericho, independent of his wealth, is a man of talent. I assure you”—now Mizzlemist was never more serious—“I assure you, I forget them, but some of his admirable bits of wit are now going about. I forget them, but I pledge myself, they are allowed to be very brilliant.”
“All’s one for that,” and Basil emptied his glass.