“I say, what nice accounts these French fellows give of us!” burst in suddenly a very young man, who stood under the shadow of Mr Endicott. The youth who hazarded this brilliant remark did not address anybody in particular, and was somewhat overpowered by the unexpected honour of an answer from Mr Agar.
“Trench journalists, and newspaper writers of any country, are of course the very best judges of manners and morals,” said the old gentleman, with a smile; “the other three estates are more than usually fallible; the fourth is the nearest approach to perfection which we can find in man.”
“Sir,” said Mr Endicott, “in my country we can do without Queen, Lords, and Commons; but we cannot do without the Press—that is, the exponent of every man’s mind and character, the legitimate vehicle of instructive experiences. The Press, sir, is Progress—the only effective agency ever invented for the perfection of the human race.”
“Oh, I am sure I quite agree with you. I am quite in love with the newspapers; they do make one so delightfully out of humour,” said Mrs Edgerley, suddenly making her appearance; “and really, you know, when they speak of society, it is quite charming—so absurd! Sir Langham Portland—Miss Atheling. I have been so longing to come to you. Oh, and you must know Mr Agar. Mr Agar, I want to introduce you to my charming young friend, the author of Hope Hazlewood; is it not wonderful? I was sure you, who are so fond of people of genius, would be pleased to know her. And there is dear Lady Theodosia, but she is so surrounded. You must come to the Willows—you must indeed; I positively insist upon it. For what can one do in an evening? and so many of my friends want to know you. We go down in a fortnight. I shall certainly calculate upon you. Oh, I never take a refusal; it was so kind of you to come to-night.”
Before she had ceased speaking, Mrs Edgerley was at the other end of the room, conversing with some one else, by her pretty gestures. Sir Langham Portland drew himself up like a guardsman, as he was, on the other side of Marian, and made original remarks about the picture-books, somewhat to the amusement, but more to the dismay of the young beauty, unaccustomed to such distinguished attentions. Mr Agar occupied himself with Agnes; he told her all about the Willows, Mrs Edgerley’s pretty house at Richmond, which was always amusing, said the old gentleman. He was very pleasantly amused himself with Agnes’s bright respondent face, which, however, this wicked old critic was fully better pleased with while its mortification and disappointment lasted. Mr Endicott remained standing in front of the group, watching the splendid guardsman with a misanthropic eye. This, however, was not very amusing; and the enlightened American gracefully took from his pocket the daintiest of pocket-books, fragrant with Russia leather and clasped with gold. From this delicate enclosure Mr Endicott selected with care a letter and a card, and, armed with these formidable implements, turned round upon the unconscious old gentleman. When Mr Agar caught a glimpse of this impending assault, his momentary look of dismay would have delighted himself, could he have seen it. “I have the honour of bearing a letter of introduction,” said Mr Endicott, closing upon the unfortunate connoisseur, and thrusting before his eyes the weapons of offence—the moral bowie-knife and revolver, which were the weapons of this young gentleman’s warfare. Mr Agar looked his assailant in the face, but did not put forth his hand.
“At my own house,” said the ancient beau, with a gracious smile: “who could be stoic enough to do justice to the most distinguished of strangers, under such irresistible distractions as I find here?”
Poor Mr Endicott! He did not venture to be offended, but he was extinguished notwithstanding, and could not make head against his double disappointment; for there stood the guardsman speaking through his mustache of Books of Beauty, and holding his place like the most faithful of sentinels by Marian Atheling’s side.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A FOE.
“I shall have to relinquish my charge of you,” said the young chaperone, for the first time addressing Agnes. Agnes started immediately, and rose.
“It is time for us to go,” she said with eager shyness, “but I did not like. May we follow you? If it would not trouble you, it would be a great kindness, for we know no one here.”