"I suppose you'll take a partner?" I asked. "Hope you'll get one more satisfactory than SARK has proved."
HARTINGTON blushed a rosy red at this reference to a partner. Didn't know he was so sensitive on account of SARK; abruptly changed subject.
"Fact is, TOBY," he said, "I hate politics; always been dragged into them by one man or another. First it was BRIGHT; then Mr. G.; now the MARKISS is always at me, making out that chaos will come if I don't stick at my place in the House during the Session, and occasionally go about country making speeches in the recess. Wouldn't mind the House if seats were more comfortable. Can sleep there pretty well for twenty minutes before dinner; but nothing to rest your head against; back falls your head; off goes your hat; and then those Radical fellows grin. I could stand politics better if Front Opposition Bench or Treasury Bench were constructed on principle of family pews in country churches. Get a decent quiet corner, and there you are. In any new Reformed Parliament hope they'll think of it; though it doesn't matter much to me. I'm going to cut it. Done my share; been abused now all round the Party circle. Conservatives, Whigs, Liberals, Radicals, Irish Members, Scotch and Welsh, each alternately have praised and belaboured me. My old enemies now my closest friends. Old friends look at me askance. It's a poor business. I never liked it, never had anything to get out of it, and you'll see presently that I'll give it up. Don't you suppose, TOBY my boy, that you shall keep the monopoly of retirement. I'll find a partner, peradventure an ARPACHSHAD, and we'll all live happily for the rest of our life."
With his right hand thrust in his trouser-pocket, his left swinging loosely at his side, and his hat low over his brow, HARTINGTON lounged off till his tall figure was lost in the gloaming.
"That's the man for my money," said ARPACHSHAD, looking with growing discontent at the Member for SARK, who, with the only blade left in his tortoiseshell-handled penknife, was diligently digging weeds out of the walk.
In the Club Smoking-Room.
"Lux Mundi," said somebody, reading aloud the title heading a lengthy criticism in the Times.
"Don't know so much about that," observed a sporting and superstitious young man; "but I know that 'Ill luck's Friday.'"