Mr. Dodson stood in a solemnity that paid homage to the occasion.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, after a long pause, which was fraught with embarrassment for both gentlemen, “I find myself upon the horns of a dilemma. I desire to be just to this great house whom a grave public scandal threatens; I desire to be just to my own humane feelings; yet above everything, Mr. Dodson, I feel that I ought to act in accordance with the best and latest modern opinion; in a word, Mr. Dodson, one is desirous of consulting the public welfare.”
“I understand perfectly, sir,” said Mr. Dodson, with an air of weight that engaged the respectful attention of his good and large-minded employer. “I understand perfectly, sir, the position in which you are placed. It is one of great delicacy. One of great delicacy. I may say, sir, it is one of the—ah, greatest possible delicacy. But if, sir, I might presume to speak——”
By the decree of Fate, however, it was not given to Mr. Dodson to presume to speak, for at that moment the door was opened, and one scarcely less in distinction than Mr. Octavius Crumpett himself was announced. It was Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B.
Mr. Dodson withdrew in a respectful silence, in which much was expressed.
The pen of the devout historian approaches warily and with awe the momentous task of delineating the outline of the Queen’s favourite novelist. He was in his mature, full-blooded, middle period; the period of his most flamboyant successes; the period of the most memorable and appealing portraits. As they or their replicas adorn the walls of every self-respecting gallery in the United Kingdom, modelled upon Millais in his second manner, the faithful are with confidence thereto referred. It is only necessary to say for the purposes of this biography that Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B., was a small, stout, middle-aged gentleman of a consummate English type—the type that is found in England, and nowhere else. In point of attire he was no less prosperous than Mr. Octavius Crumpett himself. His manner was cordial yet consonant with true dignity; his fine bearing and white gaiters were pregnant of unmistakable distinction.
When these august personages had greeted one another with a cordial frankness that was very pleasant to witness, said Sir Topman Murtle, in a smooth, high-pitched voice, “Before we approach the subject of The Angel’s Bride, I should value your advice, my dear Crumpett, upon a subject which is giving me, at the present moment, some little concern. I feel myself to be on the horns of a dilemma.”
The word “dilemma” touched a responsive chord in the bosom of Mr. Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.).
“My dilemma is this, Crumpett,” said his distinguished visitor. “It has recently been suggested to me by my friend, the Prime Minister, that I should allow myself to be nominated to the Privy Council.”
“I congratulate you unreservedly, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.), with unfeigned emotion.