had a holiday to-day, in honour of Nick's visit—a fact the mention of which led Nick to make some not particularly sincere speech about his being ready to write anything if Mr. Carteret were at all pressed.
"Ah, but your own budget: what will become of that?" the old gentleman objected, glancing at Nick's pockets as if he was rather surprised not to see them stuffed out with documents in split envelopes. His visitor had to confess that he had not directed his letters to meet him at Beauclere: he should find them in town that afternoon. This led to a little homily from Mr. Carteret which made him feel rather guilty; there was such an implication of neglected duty in the way the old man said: "You won't do them justice—you won't do them justice." He talked for ten minutes, in his rich, simple, urbane way, about the fatal consequences of getting behind. It was his favourite doctrine that one should always be a little before; and his own eminently regular respiration seemed to illustrate the idea. A man was certainly before who had so much in his rear.
This led to the bestowal of a good deal of general advice as to the mistakes to avoid at the beginning of a parliamentary career; as to which Mr. Carteret spoke with the experience of one who had sat for fifty years in the House of Commons. Nick was amused, but also mystified and even a little irritated by his talk: it was founded on the idea of observation and yet Nick was unable to regard Mr. Carteret as an observer. "He doesn't observe me," he said to himself; "if he did he would see, he wouldn't think—" And the end of this private cogitation was a vague impatience of all the things his
