She was on her way to dress for church. He drew her into the library, and there threw open a vast placard lying on the table. It was printed in blue characters and red. “This is what I got by the post this morning. I suppose Nevil knows about it. He wants tickling, but I don’t like this kind of thing. It’s not fair war. It’s as bad as using explosive bullets in my old game.”
“Can he expect his adversaries to be tender with him?” Cecilia simulated vehemence in an underbreath. She glanced down the page:
“FRENCH MARQUEES” caught her eye.
It was a page of verse. And, oh! could it have issued from a Tory Committee?
“The Liberals are as bad, and worse,” her father said.
She became more and more distressed. “It seems so very mean, papa; so base. Ungenerous is no word for it. And how vulgar! Now I remember, Nevil said he wished to see Mr. Austin.”
“Seymour Austin would not sanction it.”
“No, but Nevil might hold him responsible for it.”
“I suspect Mr. Stukely Culbrett, whom he quotes, and that smoking-room lot at Lespel’s. I distinctly discountenance it. So I shall tell them on Wednesday night. Can you keep a secret?”
“And after all Nevil Beauchamp is very young, papa!—of course I can keep a secret.”