Mr. Clutterbuck did not even hope to understand. "Oh, Mr. Bailey," he said. "Mr. Bailey, what on earth am I to do?"
To this Mr. Bailey returned the irrelevant reply: "Go on talking about the Anapootra Ruby Mines!" as though that action were a sort of panacea for the disturbed heart of man. It was bitter mockery in the ear of one whose greatest hopes were thus dashed at the end of a long and honourable life.
"I had expected more from you, Mr. Bailey," said Mr. Clutterbuck gravely.
William Bailey was again touched.
"I mean it, Clutterbuck," he said; "I really mean it. All medicines are bitter at first; it's a big business, but it's the right way—I do assure you it's the right way. I suppose you've written about those Ruby Mines—postscripts, eh? A few cards I hope? A word or two to friends in the train? Mentioned them to the servants? They're very useful, servants are! Oh, and by the way, I ought to have told you—the parson. Parsons are splendid; so are doctors. But you can't have done them all yet."
"Mr. Bailey," said Mr. Clutterbuck solemnly, "I haven't opened my lips in the matter; at least," he added, correcting himself, "only to my wife at dinner."
"And Charlie 'Fitzgerald' was there no doubt. My Cousin Charlie?" asked William Bailey pleasantly. "I've just got past him on my list—at least not him, but his grandfather. 'Daniels—Fitzgerald 1838.' Jolly old man his grandfather, but a little greasy—I remember him. He was called Daniels—Daniel Daniels; son of old Moss Daniels, the Dublin sheeny, that came to people's help, you know; you ought to know about the Daniels; very old family; we used to call his wife's drawing-room the lions' den. She was my aunt, you know," he added cheerfully. "Cousin of mine, is Charlie."
"Oh, but Mr. Bailey," groaned Mr. Clutterbuck, leaving all these irrelevancies aside, "what am I to do?"
"Oh, let 'em have it," said William Bailey in the serenity of his dissociation from politics and every other vanity.