“Yes, auntie; I hear,” cried the boy—“brewer—?”
“‘Is making strenuous efforts to gain the seat for the Tilborough division of the county. He is now in Paris, but upon his return he will commence his campaign by delivering a series of addresses to the voters. The first, we understand, will be given at the Tilborough Arms Hotel.’”
“Pah!” ejaculated Lady Lisle, making as if to throw down the fragment of paper.
“Pray read on, my lady.” Her ladyship rearranged her pince-nez and continued, beginning in a contemptuous tone of voice, which changed as she went on—
“‘But the gallant brewer, whose beer finds but little favour in this district, will learn that he has an extremely dangerous rival in our popular resident squire of the Denes—Sir Hilton Lisle, of sporting fame, who, to deal in vaticinations, we consider will be the right man in the right place.’”
“He-ah, he-ah!” cried Sydney. “So he will.”
“Yes, my dear,” said his aunt, smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm; “the editor means well, but it is very vulgarly written, ‘of sporting fame.’ Bah!”
“But that’s right, auntie. Uncle used to be very famous. Wasn’t he Master of the Hounds six years ago?”
“Yes, my dear, to his sorrow,” said Lady Lisle, reprovingly.
The steward shook his head, and looked up as he passed out, with studied deliberation, as if to let the lady see how marked was the resemblance between his action and that of the steward in Hogarth’s picture “Marriage à la Mode,” while the lady portion of his audience moved towards the other door.