"With all my heart," said Hertford, in a tone and manner of the most perfect indifference.
"How is your poetical doctor?" Lowther asked me; alluding to my physician, Doctor Nevinson, who, during a serious illness in which he had attended me, had been kind enough to sing my praise in his best rhymes.
I was very earnest in my commendations of that gentleman, believing myself under some obligations to him.
"These doctors are lucky fellows," Croker observed, affectedly.
"Not always," said I. "I have here a few lines, poor old Eliot of the Audit Office made at my house this morning, on Dr. Nevinson's hard case;" and I put into his hand a small bit of paper which was in my reticule.
"What flirtation is going on there, pray, between you two?" inquired Street, who observed me.
"Nothing," I replied, "but a few bad rhymes about Dr. Nevinson."
"Read! read!" exclaimed they all.
Between Lord Lowther's scanty courses there was ever room for reflection, even to madness.
Mr. Secretary Croker read, as follows: