"Why, Harley, you love your country, after all?"
"The moment she seems in danger—yes!" replied the Patrician; and the Sybarite seemed to rise into the Athenian.
Then he asked with eagerness about his old friend Audley; and, his curiosity satisfied there, he inquired the last literary news. He had heard much of a book lately published. He named the one ascribed by Parson Dale to Professor Moss; none of his listeners had read it. Harley pished at this, and accused them all of indolence and stupidity in his own quaint, metaphorical style. Then he said—"And town gossip?"
"We never hear it," said Lady Lansmere.
"There is a new plough much talked of at Boodle's," said Lord Lansmere.
"God speed it. But is there not a new man much talked of at White's?"
"I don't belong to White's."
"Nevertheless, you may have heard of him—a foreigner, a Count di Peschiera."
"Yes," said Lord Lansmere; "he was pointed out to me in the Park—a handsome man for a foreigner; wears his hair properly cut; looks gentlemanlike and English."
"Ah, ah! He is here then!" And Harley rubbed his hands.