‘Un vrai sire
Chatelain
Laisse ecrire
Le vilain.
Sa main digne
Quand il signe
Egratigne
Le velin.
And the little egralignures he most likes to make have been scored pretty deeply by the sword.”
“But this is childish and medheval nonsense!”
“Precisely; and from your, or rather our, point of view the pen is mightier than the sword. In this country it’s otherwise. The fault lies in our Indian balances, not yet adjusted to civilized weights and measures.”
“Well, at all events, this literary class represent the natural aspirations and wishes of the people at large, though it may not exactly lead them, and, in spite of all you say, Orde, I defy you to find a really sound English Radical who would not sympathize with those aspirations.”
Pagett spoke with some warmth, and he had scarcely ceased when a well appointed dog-cart turned into the compound gates, and Orde rose saying:
“Here is Edwards, the Master of the Lodge I neglect so diligently, come to talk about accounts, I suppose.”
As the vehicle drove up under the porch Pagett also rose, saying with the trained effusion born of much practice:
“But this is also my friend, my old and valued friend Edwards. I’m delighted to see you. I knew you were in India, but not exactly where.”
“Then it isn’t accounts, Mr. Edwards,” said Orde, cheerily.