Mr. Etheredge, who well knew the attraction that held the Duke fast in Town, and who had, himself, just completed his preparations for departure, came to make the last of several recent attempts to recall his friend to his senses, and persuade him to leave London for healthier surroundings.
Buckingham laughed at him without mirth.
“You alarm yourself without occasion, George. This pestilence is born of uncleanliness and confines itself to the unclean. Look into the cases that are reported. The outbreaks are all in mean houses in mean streets. The plague practises a nice discrimination, and does not venture to intrude upon persons of quality.”
“Nevertheless, I take my precautions,” said Mr. Etheredge, producing a handkerchief from which a strong perfume of camphor and vinegar diffused itself through the room. “And I am one of those who believe that flight is the best physic. Besides, what is there to do here? The Court is gone; the Town is hot and reeking as an anteroom of hell. In Heaven’s name let us seek a breath of clean, cool, country air.”
“Pish! Ye’re bucolic. Like Dryden ye’ve a pastoral mind. Well, well, be off to your sheep. We shall not miss you here.”
Mr. Etheredge sat down and studied his friend, pursing his lips.
“And all this for a prude who has no notion of being kind! Let me perish, Bucks, but I don’t know you!”
The Duke fetched a sigh. “Sometimes I think I don’t know myself. Gad, George, I believe I am going mad!” He strode away to the window.
“Comfort yourself with the reflection that you won’t have far to go,” said the unsympathetic Mr. Etheredge. “How a man of your years and experience can take the risks and the trouble over a pursuit that....”
The Duke swung round to interrupt him sharply.