Smooth. The book was open at the article upon the table. It does you honour. Hits just the happy point,—hints probable intentions, without giving any pledge,—enough to please the Liberals,—and full room for explanation, if any change becomes expedient. The true plan, believe me, for a ministry, in times like these, is to proceed en tâtonnant.—Pray, Mr. Dean, how is the Bishop of Hereford?
Atall. I didn't know that he was particularly ill. He has long been feeble.
Smooth. These complainers do sometimes hold out. But they cannot last for ever.—We meet I hope to-morrow at the levee. You ought to be there.
Atall. I have come to town for the purpose; having secured, I think, Closewind's election at Cambridge.
Smooth. Well done, my very good friend! Men of talent should always pull together. Sorry that I must go; but we meet to-morrow. (Shaking hands very cordially.)
Scene VI.—Byeways' lodgings. Byeways alone, writing. Enter Turnstile.
Turnstile. My dear Byeways; I want your assistance. Deserted by those shabby dogs the Radicals, and tricked, I fear, by the Whigs, I find I have no chance of a decent show of numbers at the next election, if my scientific friends do not support me with spirit. Even so, it can be only an honourable retreat. I count upon you,—you understand the world;—and as soon as we can muster a committee, you must be my chairman.
Byeways. My good friend, don't be in a hurry; sit down and tell me all about it. I know you don't care much about your seat,—and after all,—it is,—to you, a waste of time;—
