“Don’t you remember?—that’s how the Tories used to fight you; they stuck an epithet to you, and hooted to set the mob an example; you hit them off to the life,” said Beauchamp, brightening with the fine ire of strife, and affecting a sadder indignation. “You traded on the ignorance of a man prejudiced by lying reports of one of the noblest of human creatures.”
“Shrapnel? There! I’ve had enough.” Grancey Lespel bounced away with both hands outspread on the level of his ears.
“Dead!” Beauchamp sent the ghastly accusation after him.
Grancey faced round and said, “Bo!” which was applauded for a smart retort. And let none of us be so exalted above the wit of daily life as to sneer at it. Mrs. Lespel remarked to Mr. Culbrett, “Do you not see how much he is refreshed by the interest he takes in this election? He is ten years younger.”
Beauchamp bent to her, saying mock-dolefully, “I’m sorry to tell you that if ever he was a sincere Whig, he has years of remorse before him.”
“Promise me, Captain Beauchamp,” she answered, “promise you will give us no more politics to-day.”
“If none provoke me.”
“None shall.”
“And as to Bevisham,” said Mr. Culbrett, “it’s the identical borough for a Radical candidate, for every voter there demands a division of his property, and he should be the last to complain of an adoption of his principles.”
“Clever,” rejoined Beauchamp; “but I am under government”; and he swept a bow to Mrs. Lespel.