“Yes, carefully, Wilcox,” said his lordship; “and afterwards give the key to Mr. Norton.”
“Yes, my lord.”
In a few minutes the paintings were removed, and the conversation began where it had been left off.
“This double visit, Tom, will be a great bore. I wish I could avoid it—philosophized by the father, beslobbered by the sister—faugh!”
“These books, too, my lord, had better be put aside, I think.”
“Well, I suppose so; lock them in that drawer.”
Norton did so, and then proceeded. “Now, my dear Dunroe—”
“Tom,” said his lordship, interrupting him, “I know what you are going to say—try and put yourself into something like moral trim for the old peer—is not that it? Do you know, Tom, I have some thoughts of becoming religious? What is religion, Tom? You know we were talking about it the other day. You said it was a capital thing for the world—that it sharpened a man, and put him up to anything, and so on.”
“What has put such a notion into your head now, my lord?”
“I don't know—nothing, I believe. Can religion be taught, Tom? Could one, for instance, take lessons in it?”