“Here, catch!” cried Sir Hilton, tossing the man a florin, which, as it went spinning out into the sunshine, was deftly caught, spat upon, and transferred to a pocket.
“Long life to Sir Rilton Lisle, and may his ’osses allus win! But you’ll buy the little dawg for her ladyship, your honour?”
Sir Hilton made an angry gesture, and the wretched-looking object slouched off, just as the noise of gravel-grinding was heard, and the Lisles’ handsome victoria was driven up to the front door.
“There, Hilton,” said the lady, reproachfully, “is it not horrible that you should have come to such a state of degradation as that!”—and she pointed in the direction taken by the tout.
“I—I?” cried her husband, firing up. “Hang it all, Laura, do you compare me to that wretched cad?”
“No, no, my dear. I mean the degradation of being recognised by such a miserable outcast.”
“Humph! Poor wretch!”
“And I do object, love, to your indulging in casual relief. Be charitable, of course, but give only to the deserving and good. There,” she continued, advancing towards him to lay her hands upon his shoulders and kiss him solemnly, “I’m not angry with you, darling, for you will take these lessons to heart, I’m sure. Good-bye, love. Go and study up your Blue Books, and think out your plan of campaign. I shall be back soon to tell you that you may be sure of Mr Browse’s vote.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Sir Hilton, responding dreamily to the chilly caress he received, the lady’s lips being just on a level with his forehead. “Here, I’ll come to the carriage with you.”
“No, no, no, love. Get to your Blue Books, and practise your speeches. I’m going to work for and with you, not to be a hindrance. Get to work, I want you to be a modern Cicero or Demosthenes. Good-bye—Good-bye.”