the revenue.'
'A pretty lace merchant, upon my soul,' said she, and she began to rock her body to and fro. The sight alarmed Nicholas Wogan, since he knew the movement to be a premonition of tears. 'A lace merchant who writes letters in Latin, and rides in the Bishop of Rochester's coach, and goes a-visiting my Lord Oxford in the country. Thirteen shillings have I paid for letters in one day. Laces, forsooth! It is hempen ropes the poor gentleman travels in, and never was a man so eager to fit them to his own neck.' And, at the affecting prospect which her words called up, the good woman lifted her apron to her eyes and forthwith dissolved into tears. Sobs tore her ample bosom, her soft frame quivered like a jelly. Never did Mr. Wogan find his intimate knowledge of the sex of more inestimable value. He crossed the room; he took one plump hand into his left palm and gently cherished it with his right. The tears diminished to a whimpering. He cooed a compliment into Mrs. Barnes's ear, 'A little white dove of a hand in a brown nest, my dear woman,' said he, and affectionately tweaked her ear. Even the whimpering ceased, but ceased under protest! For Mrs. Barnes began to speak again. Wogan, however, kissed the tearful eyes and sealed them in content.
'Hoity-toity, here's a set out,' he said, 'because my Lord Oxford wants a pair of Venice ruffles to hide his gouty fingers, or a new mantilla for his new spouse,' and so, softly chiding her, he pushed her out of the room.
At nine o'clock to the minute the chaise drove up to the door. Mr. Kelly took a stroll along the street to see the coast was clear; Mrs. Barnes was in two minds whether to weep at losing her lodgers, or to smile at their prospects of security, and compromised between her emotions by indulging them alternately; and finally the two friends in burgess dress entered the chaise and drove off. Mr. Wogan thrust his head half out of the window, the better to take his fill of the cool night air, but drew it back something of the suddenest at the corner where Ryder Street debouches into St. James's.
'Sure the man's a spy,' said he, flinging himself back. Parson Kelly leaned cautiously forward, and under an oil-lamp above the porch of a door he saw Captain Montague. The Captain was standing in an indecisive attitude, tapping with his stick upon the pavement and looking up and down the street.
'I doubt it,' returned Kelly. 'I have ever heard he was the most scrupulous gentleman.'
'But he's a Whig. A Whig and a gentleman! But it's a contradiction in terms. Whigging is a nasty insupportable trade, and infects a man like a poison. A Whig is a sort of third sex by itself that combines all the failings of the other two.'
However, this time it was evident that Captain Montague had taken no note of Nicholas Wogan. He could not but reflect how it was at this very spot that he had come upon the captain before, and mighty glad he was when the lights of Knightsbridge had sunk behind them, and they were driving betwixt the hedgerows. Then at one spring he jumped to the top of his spirits.
'George, what a night!' cries he. 'Sure I was never designed to live in a house at all, but to be entirely happy under the blue roof-tree of the sky. Put me out on a good road at night and the whole universe converses with me on the most familiar terms. Perhaps it's a bush that throws out a tendril and says, "Smell that, you devil, and good luck to you." Or, maybe it's the stars that wink at me and say, "Here's a world for you, Nick, my little friend. Only wait a moment, and we'll show you a bit of a moon that'll make a poet of you." Then up comes the moon, perhaps, in a crescent like a wisp of fire, and, says she, "It's all very well here, Nicholas, but take my word for it, I can show you as good on the sea and better. For you'll have all this, and the hiss of the water under your lee besides, and the little bubbles dancing on the top." But what troubles you, George?'
But Kelly made little or no reply, being sunk in the consideration of some difficulty. For two days he remained closeted with his trouble, and it was not until they had got to Worcester that he discovered it. They changed horses at the 'Dog and Turk' and drove through the town under the Abbey clock.
'It is five minutes to twelve,' said Wogan, looking at the clock.
'Yes,' said Kelly with a sigh, 'the face is very plain to read.' Then he sighed again.
'Now, if the clock were a woman,' said he, 'it might be half-past four and we still thinking it five minutes to twelve.'
'Oh, is it there you are?' said Wogan.
'Why, yes,' replied Kelly. 'Lord Oxford, do you see, Nick, is a half-hearted sort of trembler—that we know and are ready for him. But what of my lady?'
Wogan crossed his legs and laughed comfortably. Here was matter with which he could confidently deal.
'Well, what of her?' he asked.
'You heard what Fanny Oglethorpe said. She is a kinswoman of Mr. Walpole's. How shall we be sure of her at all? A woman, Nick, is a creature who walks in the byways of thought. How shall an obtuse man follow her?'
Wogan took a pinch of snuff.
'It is very well, George,' said he, 'that I took this journey with you. I'll make your conduct plain to you as the palm of my hand. In the first place, there was never a woman yet from Cleopatra downwards that cared the scrape of a fiddle for politics. 'Twas never more than a path that led to something else, and is held of just as small account as the road a girl dances down when she goes to meet her lover. Look at Fanny Oglethorpe, Olive Trant, and the rest of them in Paris! D'you think it's the Cause they ever give a thought to? If you do you're sadly out, my friend. No; what troubles their heads is simply that the Chevalier is a romantical figure of a man, and would look extraordinarily well with a gold crown on the top of his periwig. Now I'm wagering it will be just the same with my Lady Oxford. You have all the qualifications down to your legs, and let my lady once take a liking to your person she will gulp your politics without a grimace.'
Mr. Kelly turned a startled face towards his instructor.
'You would have me pay court to her?' says he.
'Just that,' says Wogan, imperturbably. 'Keep your politics for my lord and have a soft word ready for my lady. Pen her a delicate ode in Latin. To be sure the addresses of an erudite man have something particularly flattering to the sex. Or drop out a pretty compliment on her ear.'
'Oh, on her ear?' said Kelly, beginning to smile. 'Of what sort?'
'Faith, George, but you exasperate me,' said Nick. 'Isn't there an infinity of images you could use? For instance—,' said he, and hummed a little.
'Well, for instance!' said Kelly, urging him on.
'For instance,' returned Wogan, 'you can speak of its functions—'
'I understand. I am to tell her that it is a very proper thing for a woman to sit and listen to other people.'
'Tell her that,' cries Wogan, lifting up his hands, 'and you will be drubbed down the staircase pretty quick! No. Tell her there is never a poet laureate in the world would print a single one of his poems if he could treasure his music within her ear.'
'Ah,' says Kelly. 'That is a compliment of quite a different kind,' and he repeated it three times to commit it to memory. 'But one, Nick, will not suffice. I must have more sayings about her ear.'
'And you shall,' says Wogan. 'You can speak of its appearance.'
'Of its appearance?'
'And fit a simile to it.'
'Give me one,' said Kelly.
'You can say her ear is like a rosy shell on the sea-banks.'
Mr.
