‘I was attacked the other day most vigorously by Mrs. Dallington to obtain a sight,’ said Lord Squib. ‘I referred her to Lucy Grafton. Do you know, St. James, I have half a strange idea that there is a renewal in that quarter?’
‘So they say,’ said the Duke; ‘if so, I confess I am surprised.’ But they remembered Lord Darrell, and the conversation turned.
‘Those are clever horses of Lincoln Graves,’ said Mr. Annesley.
‘Neat cattle, as Bagshot says,’ observed Lord Squib.
‘Is it true that Bag is going to marry one of the Wrekins?’ asked the Duke.
‘Which?’ asked Lord Squib; ‘not Sophy, surely I thought she was to be your cousin. I dare say,’ he added, ‘a false report. I suppose, to use a Bagshotism, his governor wants it; but I should think Lord Cub would not yet be taken in. By-the-bye, he says you have promised to propose him at White’s, St. James.’
‘Oppose him, I said,’ rejoined the Duke. ‘Bag really never understands English. However, I think it as probable that he will lounge there as on the Treasury bench. That was his “governor’s” last shrewd plan.’
‘Darrell,’ said Lord Squib, ‘is there any chance of my being a commissioner for anything? It struck me last night that I had never been in office.’
‘I do not think, Squib, that you ever will be in office, if even you be appointed.’
‘On the contrary, my good fellow, my punctuality should surprise you. I should like very much to be a lay lord, because I cannot afford to keep a yacht, and theirs, they say, are not sufficiently used, for the Admirals think it spooney, and the landlubbers are always sick.’