“Mr. Fox!” I exclaimed.
He took my hands in his, and stood regarding me.
“For the convenience of my friends, I was christened Charles,” said he.
I stared at him in amazement. He was grown a deal stouter, but my eye was caught and held by the blue coat and buff waistcoat he wore. They were frayed and stained and shabby, yet they seemed all of a piece with some new grandeur come upon the man.
“Is all the world turning virtuous? Is the millennium arrived?” I cried.
He smiled, with his old boyish smile.
“You think me changed some since that morning we drove together to Holland House—do you remember it after the night at St. Stephen's?”
“Remember it!” I repeated, with emphasis, “I'll warrant I can give you every bit of our talk.”
“I have seen many men since, but never have I met your equal for a most damnable frankness, Richard Carvel. Even Jack, here, is not half so blunt and uncompromising. But you took my fancy—God knows why!—that first night I clapped eyes on you in Arlington Street, and I loved you when your simplicity made us that speech at Brooks's Club. So you have not forgotten that morning under the trees, when the dew was on the grass. Faith, I am glad of it. What children we were!” he said, and sighed.
“And yet you were a Junior Lord,” I said.