Thus painfully revolving matters of fact and feeling, Sir William cantered, and, like a cropped billow blown against by the wind, drew up in front of Mrs. Lovell, and entered into conversation with that lady, for the fine needles of whose brain he had the perfect deference of an experienced senior. She, however, did not give him comfort. She informed him that something was wrong with Edward; she could not tell what. She spoke of him languidly, as if his letters contained wearisome trifling.
“He strains to be Frenchy,” she said. “It may be a good compliment for them to receive: it's a bad one for him to pay.”
“Alcibiades is not the best of models,” murmured Sir William. “He doesn't mention Miss Gosling.”
“Oh dear, yes. I have a French acrostic on her name.”
“An acrostic!”
A more contemptible form of mental exercise was not to be found, according to Sir William's judgement.
“An acrostic!” he made it guttural. “Well!”
“He writes word that he hears Moliere every other night. That can't harm him. His reading is principally Memoirs, which I think I have heard you call 'The backstairs of history.' We are dull here, and I should not imagine it to be a healthy place to dwell in, if the absence of friends and the presence of sunshine conspire to dullness. Algy, of course, is deep in accounts to-day?”
Sir William remarked that he had not seen the young man at the office, and had not looked for him; but the mention of Algernon brought something to his mind, and he said,—
“I hear he is continually sending messengers from the office to you during the day. You rule him with a rod of iron. Make him discontinue that practice. I hear that he despatched our old porter to you yesterday with a letter marked 'urgent.'”