“Where?” demanded Bulstrode, with more quickness and curiosity than strictly comported with good-breeding perhaps.
“Satanstoe; I do not wonder you smile, for it has an odd sound, but it is the name my grandfather has given the family place in Westchester. Given, I have said, though translated would be better, as I understand the present appellation is pretty literally rendered into English from the Dutch.”
“I like the name exceedingly, Mr. Littlepage, and I feel certain I should like your good, old, honest, Anglo-Saxon grandfather. But, pardon me, it is his wish you should remain at Satansfoot?”
“Satanstoe, sir; we do not aspire to the whole foot. It is my grandfather's wish that I remain at home until of age, which will not be now for some months.”
“By way of keeping you out of Satan's footsteps, I suppose. Well, these old gentlemen are often right. Should you alter your views, however, my dear Littlepage, do not forget me, but remember you can count on one who has some little influence, and who will ever be ready to exert it in the behalf of one who has proved so serviceable to Miss Mordaunt. Sir Harry is a martyr to the gout, and talks of letting me stand in his place at the dissolution. In that case my wishes will naturally carry more weight. I like that name of Satanstoe amazingly!”
“I am infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Bulstrode, though I will confess I have never looked forward to rising in the world by taxing my friends. One may own that he has had some hopes founded on merit and honesty—”
“Poh! poh!—my dear Littlepage, honesty is a very pretty thing to talk about, but I suppose you remember what Juvenal says on that interesting subject—“probitas laudatur et alget.” I dare say you are fresh enough from college to remember that comprehensive sentiment.”
“I have never read Juvenal, Mr. Bulstrode, and never wish to, if such be the tendency of what he teaches—”
“Juvenal was a satirist, you know,” interrupted Bulstrode a little hastily, for by this time he too had ascertained that Anneke was listening, and he betrayed some eagerness to get rid of so flagitious a sentiment; “and satirists speak of things as they are, rather than as they ought to be. I dare say Rome deserved all she got, for the moralists give a very sad account of her condition. Of all the large capitals of which we have any account, London is the only town of even tolerable manners.”
What young Bulstrode would have ventured to say next, it is out of my power to guess; for a certain Miss Warren, who was of the company, and who particularly affected the youth, luckily called out at this critical instant—