"Precisely," says Brandolin, wondering how he shall get rid of this man.
"And he takes Lady Waverley for an example, too?" asks Litroff, with a laugh.
"Religion enjoins us," replies Brandolin, curtly, "to offer what we have most precious to the Lord."
The secretary laughs again.
"That is very good," he says, with enjoyment.
Mr. Wootton comes in at that instant. He has been away, but has returned: the cooks at Surrenden are admirable. Brandolin sees his hopes of a tête-à-tête and a walk in the home wood fading farther and farther from view. Mr. Wootton has several telegram-papers in his hand.
"All bad news, from all the departments," he remarks.
"There is nothing but bad news," says Brandolin. "It is painful to die by driblets. We shall all be glad when we have got the thing over,—seen Windsor burnt, London sacked, Ireland admitted to the American Union, and Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone crowned at Westminster."
Mr. Wootton coughs: he does not like unseemly jests, nor to have the gravity and exclusiveness of the private intelligence he receives doubted. He turns to Litroff, talks of Russian politics, and brings the conversation round to the Princess Sabaroff.
Brandolin, appearing absorbed in his book, lies on his couch wondering whether he should meet her anywhere about the gardens if he went out. He listens angrily when he hears her name.