“The DAWN!” ejaculated Tuckham. “The grey-eyed, or the red? Extraordinary name for a paper, upon my word!”
“A paper that doesn’t devote half its columns to the vices of the rich—to money-getting, spending and betting—will be an extraordinary paper.”
“I have it before me now!—two doses of flattery to one of the whip. No, no; you haven’t hit the disease. We want union, not division. Turn your mind to being a moralist, instead of a politician.”
“The distinction shouldn’t exist!”
“Only it does!”
Mrs. Grancey Lespel’s entrance diverted their dialogue from a theme wearisome to Cecilia, for Beauchamp shone but darkly in it, and Mr. Austin did not join in it. Mrs. Grancey touched Beauchamp’s fingers. “Still political?” she said. “You have been seen about London with a French officer in uniform.”
“It was M. le comte de Croisnel, a very old friend and comrade of mine,” Beauchamp replied.
“Why do those Frenchmen everlastingly wear their uniforms?—tell me! Don’t you think it detestable style?”
“He came over in a hurry.”
“Now, don’t be huffed. I know you, for defending your friends, Captain Beauchamp! Did he not come over with ladies?”