He did tell it, hurling back his taunt upon the anonymous slanderer, by styling him the “assassin of the desk.”
In fine, Kossuth’s character came out, not only unscathed, but, in the eyes of all true men, stood clearer than ever.
It was this that chafed the vindictive spirit of his lordship, as he sate smoking an “emperor.”
The influence of the nicotian weed seemed gradually to tranquillise him, and the shadow disappeared from his brow.
And he had solace from another source—from reflection on a triumph achieved; not in the fields of diplomacy or war, but the court of Cupid. He was thinking of the many facile conquests he had made—consoling himself with the thought, that old age has its compensation, in fame, money, and power.
More particularly was his mind dwelling on his newest and latest amourette, with the wife of his protégé, Swinton. He had reason to think it a success; and attributing this to his own powers of fascination—in which he still fancifully believed—he continued to puff away at his cigar in a state of dreamy contentment.
It was a rude disturber to his Sardanapalian train of thought, as a footman gliding into the room, placed a card in his hand that carried the name of “Swinton.”
“Where is he?” was the question curtly put to the servant. “Drawin’-room, your ludship.”
“You should not have shown him there, till you’d learnt whether it was convenient for me to receive him.”
“Pardon, your ludship. He walked right in ’ithout bein’ asked—sayin’ he wished very partickler to speak with your ludship.”