Lord Stonehenge gave no sign of disagreement, which was sufficient excuse for Canon Spratte to state at length his laudable opinions. Presently, however, Lord Hollington proposed that they should go upstairs, and on their way the Canon shot his last bolt.
“By the bye, I was just talking to Lady Patricia about addressing a great Primrose Meeting this month.”
He was able, consequently, to flatter himself that he had not left a single thing unsaid which it behoved the Prime Minister to know.
Canon Spratte and Lord Stonehenge went away together. When the Canon had driven off behind a fine pair of bays, in a new and splendid brougham of the latest pattern, Lord Stonehenge lumbered into a carriage, which was both small and shabby. It was drawn by one horse only, and this was somewhat long in the tooth. There was no footman, and the coachman, in a uniform much the worse for wear, sat on his box in a slovenly, humped-up fashion. The Prime Minister and Lady Patricia drove for a while in silence; then from the depths of his beard, Lord Stonehenge summed up the party.
“They were very dull, but the dinner was eatable.”
“I hope you took no ice, papa,” said Lady Patricia.
“I merely tasted it,” he confessed, in apologetic tones. “I wonder why we can’t have ices like that. Ours are too cold.”
“Lady Eastney was there, so I suppose it’s not true about Sir Archibald. The Hollingtons are so careful.”
“Who was she? The woman with the fat neck?”
“She sat immediately opposite Canon Spratte,” answered Lady Patricia.