"Upon my word, Sir," I said, a little out of breath trying to keep pace with him running up the Duke of YORK'S steps going home to dinner, "you grow younger every year, and, if I may say so, mellower."
"You certainly may say so, TOBY, if you like," he smilingly replied, "but the calendar says otherwise."
"What," I asked—
"What has the calendar to do
With Mr. G.? What Time's fruitless tooth
With gay immortals such as you,
Whose years but emphasise your youth?"
"Ah, I know that—with a slight difference. LOWELL wrote it to WENDEL HOLMES on his seventy-fifth birthday. I knew HOLMES too; he used to crow over me because he was just four months older, and yet, as he said, whilst I pleaded age as a reason why I could not visit the United States, he crossed the Atlantic at seventy-seven. Perhaps when I've got this Home-Rule question off my hands, I may find time to go to the United States."
"Yes," I said, "you'll be another year younger then, and more at leisure."
Business done.—Indian Council Bill read Second Time.