Lord Montfort had reminded Endymion of his promise to introduce the distinguished author to him, and accordingly, after due researches as to his dwelling-place, Mr. Ferrars called in Jermyn Street and sent up his card, to know whether Mr. St. Barbe would receive him. This was evidently not a matter-of-course affair, and some little time had elapsed when the maid-servant appeared, and beckoned to Endymion to follow her upstairs.
In the front drawing-room of the first floor, robed in a flaming dressing-gown, and standing with his back to the fire and to the looking-glass, the frame of which was encrusted with cards of invitation, the former colleague of Endymion received his visitor with a somewhat haughty and reserved air.
“Well, I am delighted to see you again,” said Endymion.
No reply but a ceremonious bow.
“And to congratulate you,” Endymion added after a moment’s pause. “I hear of nothing but of your book; I suppose one of the most successful that have appeared for a long time.”
“Its success is not owing to your friends,” said Mr. St. Barbe tartly.
“My friends!” said Endymion; “what could they have done to prevent it?”
“They need not have dissolved parliament,” said Mr. St. Barbe with irritation. “It was nearly fatal to me; it would have been to anybody else. I was selling forty thousand a month; I believe more than Gushy ever reached; and so they dissolved parliament. The sale went down half at once—and now you expect me to support your party!”
“Well, it was unfortunate, but the dissolution could hardly have done you any permanent injury, and you could scarcely expect that such an event could be postponed even for the advantage of an individual so distinguished as yourself.”
“Perhaps not,” said St. Barbe, apparently a little mollified, “but they might have done something to show their regret at it.”