“Good lack, Mr. Pott, that is your never-failing answer,” said Lady Penelope; “I believe if I were to ask you for the last new edition of the Alkoran, you would tell me it was coming down in your next monthly parcel.”
“Can't say, my lady, really,” answered Mr. Pott; “have not seen the work advertised yet; but I have no doubt, if it is likely to take, there will be copies in my next monthly parcel.”
“Mr. Pott's supplies are always in the paullo post futurum tense,” said Mr. Chatterly, who was just entering the shop.
“Ah! Mr. Chatterly, are you there?” said Lady Penelope; “I lay my death at your door—I cannot find this Thebaid, where Polynices and his brother”——
“Hush, my lady!—hush, for Heaven's sake!” said the poetical divine, and looked towards Lord Etherington. Lady Penelope took the hint, and was silent; but she had said enough to call up the traveller Touchwood, who raised his head from the newspaper which he was studying, and, without addressing his discourse to any one in particular, ejaculated, as if in scorn of Lady Penelope's geography—
“Polynices?—Polly Peachum.—There is no such place in the Thebais—the Thebais is in Egypt—the mummies come from the Thebais—I have been in the catacombs—caves very curious indeed—we were lapidated by the natives—pebbled to some purpose, I give you my word. My janizary thrashed a whole village by way of retaliation.”
While he was thus proceeding, Lord Etherington, as if in a listless mood, was looking at the letters which stood ranged on the chimney-piece, and carrying on a languid dialogue with Mrs. Pott, whose person and manners were not ill adapted to her situation, for she was good-looking, and vastly fine and affected.
“Number of letters here which don't seem to find owners, Mrs. Pott?”
“Great number, indeed, my lord—it is a great vexation, for we are obliged to return them to the post-office, and the postage is charged against us if they are lost; and how can one keep sight of them all?”
“Any love-letters among them, Mrs. Pott?” said his lordship, lowering his tone.