“I have been asked my forecast fifty times to-day, and I steadily refuse to speak. But I may as well give it to you. We shall come back with a majority of from fifty to eighty, and you, my dear fellow, will not be forgotten.”
“You mean the Under-Secretaryship,” said the other. “Well, I don’t mind it.”
“I should think not. Why, you will get that chance your friends have hoped so long for, and then it is only a matter of time till you climb the last steps. You are a youngish man for a Minister, for all your elderly manners.”
Wratislaw smiled the pleased smile of the man who hears kind words from one whom he admires. “It won’t be a bed of roses, you know. I am very unpopular, and I have the grace to know it.”
The elder man looked on the younger with an air of kindly wisdom. “Your pride may have a fall, my dear fellow. You are young and confident, I am old and humble. Some day you will be glad to hope that you are not without this despised popularity.”
Wratislaw looked grave. “God forbid that I should despise it. When it comes my way I shall think that my work is done, and rest in peace. But you and I are not the sort of people who can court it with comfort. We are old sticks and very full of angles, but it would be a pity to rub them off if the shape were to be spoiled.”
Lord Beauregard nodded. “Tell me more about your friend Haystoun.”
Wratislaw’s face relaxed, and he became communicative.
“He is a Scots laird, rather well off, and, as I have said, uncommonly clever. He lives at a place called Etterick in the Gled valley.”
“I saw Merkland to-day, and he spoke his farewell to politics. The Whips told me about it yesterday.”