"St. Vincent. Prime stuff: and—in your ear—smuggled!"
"No!—reely?"
The two men leant over the candle and lighted their pipes with artistic care.
"Was you at a banquet again last night, Brooke?" asked the Admiral, during this process.
"Yes—yes," replied the other, with splendid indifference. "The Guildhall. All the hote tonn."
"Lucky dog," said Sir Peter, smacking his lips: "turtle, eh?"
With the air of a man jaded by too much enjoyment Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn condescended to enlarge. "As usual. Believe me, personally I should much prefer seclusion and meditation in the company of poets and philosophers, or dallying with Selina; but my friends are good enough to insist. Only last night," with a side glance to watch the effect he was producing, "Fox—my good friend, the Right Honourable Charles James Fox—said, 'Brooke, my boy'—just like that—'Brooke, my boy, what would our banquets be without you?'"
Sir Peter was deeply impressed. He felt himself in touch with the great world. "Gobblessmysoul!" he cried. "What's your average?"
"I am sorry to say, I usually have to wrench myself away from my precious Selina four nights a week."
"Think o' that, now!—By the way, how is she?"