whose specific virtues lay in the enormous costliness of some
of the constituents, so it must give unspeakable value to the efficacy
of those healing measures for Ireland, to know that the whole British
Constitution was boiled down to make one of them, and every right and
liberty brayed in the mortar to furnish even one dose of this precious
elixir.' And then there was 'laughter' again.

'He ought to be more merciful to charlatans. Dogs do not eat dogs,'
muttered his lordship to himself, and then asked his niece to send Walpole
to him.

It was some time before Walpole appeared, and when he did, it was with such
a wasted look and careworn aspect as might have pleaded in his favour.

'Maude told me you wished to see me, my lord,' said he, half diffidently.

'Did I? eh? Did I say so? I forget all about it. What could it be? Let us
see. Was it this stupid row they were making in the House? Have you read
the debate?'

'No, my lord; not looked at a paper.'

'Of course not; you have been too ill, too weak. Have you seen a doctor?'

'I don't care to see a doctor; they all say the same thing. I only need
rest and quiet.'

'Only that! Why, they are the two things nobody can get. Power cannot have
them, nor money buy them. The retired tradesman--I beg his pardon, the
cheesemonger--he is always a cheesemonger now who represents vulgarity and
bank-stock--he may have his rest and quiet; but a Minister must not dream
of such a luxury, nor any one who serves a Minister. Where's the quiet to
come from, I ask you, after such a tirade of abuse as that?' And he pointed
to the _Times_. 'There's _Punch_, too, with a picture of me measuring out
"Danesbury's drops to cure loyalty." That slim youth handing the spoon is
meant for _you_, Walpole.'

'Perhaps so, my lord,' said he coldly.

'They haven't given you too much leg, Cecil,' said the other, laughing; but
Cecil scarcely relished the joke.

'I say, Piccadilly is scarcely the place for a man after that: I mean, of
course, for a while,' continued he. 'These things are not eternal; they
have their day. They had me last week travelling in Ireland on a camel; and
I was made to say, "That the air of the desert always did me good!" Poor
fun, was it not?'

'Very poor fun indeed!'

'And you were the boy preparing my chibouque; and, I must say, devilish
like.'

'I did not see it, my lord.'

'That's the best way. Don't look at the caricatures; don't read the
_Saturday Review_; never