"Mr. Locke is a philosopher," remarked Dorset good-humouredly.
"Good God, we get choked with 'em," remarked the magnificent Devonshire. "Now Montague hath brought Mr. Newton into the Mint and Somers is always deep with Mr. Locke——"
"And my Lord Portland," cried Dorset, with the irrepressible levity of his class and nation, "deep with a poet for his secretary."
"As for that same poet," said Portland gravely, "I tell you, my lord, that he now goeth to Church, and will not write profane verses on a Sabbath."
"A triumph indeed for the godliness of your lordship," said Devonshire demurely.
"Is this poor Matt Prior?" asked Dorset. "His verses on the taking of Namur were very neat."
"I did not read them," answered Portland dryly. "I never could endure poetry or play-acting—the King is plagued with enough to paper London."
"I remember in The Hague," smiled Devonshire, "when His Majesty was expecting a promise of money from Amsterdam by every post, and I took in a letter which I thought was it—but which proved to be a copy of verses on his safe crossing from England, with a fresh heathen god in every line—His Majesty's curses were powerful for a Christian Prince—and he declared it had given him a distaste for the very sight of poetry."
Dorset laughed; he remembered the occasion also as the only one on which he had heard violent language from the austere King. Portland was disgusted that they could amuse themselves with these recollections during such anxious moments; it was only another proof, he thought, of the shallowness of the English politicians. And even these anecdotes turned on the King's lack of money; it must be six years since Devonshire was at The Hague, and William was still in the same straits. Portland wondered if the time would ever come when he would be free of these burdens, and doubted it.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer entered the gallery, and instantly everybody formed a little group about him, including the two ladies, to whom he gave a flourishing and gallant greeting.