And perplexedly scratching his head, forgetful of the yolks of eggs, is the more discomfited by being reminded how stickey he is.
‘Between such old and intimate friends as ourselves,’ pursues Veneering, ‘there should in such a case be no reserve. Promise me that if I ask you to do anything for me which you don’t like to do, or feel the slightest difficulty in doing, you will freely tell me so.’
This, Twemlow is so kind as to promise, with every appearance of most heartily intending to keep his word.
‘Would you have any objection to write down to Snigsworthy Park, and ask this favour of Lord Snigsworth? Of course if it were granted I should know that I owed it solely to you; while at the same time you would put it to Lord Snigsworth entirely upon public grounds. Would you have any objection?’
Says Twemlow, with his hand to his forehead, ‘You have exacted a promise from me.’
‘I have, my dear Twemlow.’
‘And you expect me to keep it honourably.’
‘I do, my dear Twemlow.’
‘On the whole, then;—observe me,’ urges Twemlow with great nicety, as if; in the case of its having been off the whole, he would have done it directly—‘on the whole, I must beg you to excuse me from addressing any communication to Lord Snigsworth.’
‘Bless you, bless you!’ says Veneering; horribly disappointed, but grasping him by both hands again, in a particularly fervent manner.
It is not to be wondered at that poor Twemlow should decline to inflict a letter on his noble cousin (who has gout in the temper), inasmuch as his noble cousin, who allows him a small annuity on which he lives, takes it out of him, as the phrase goes, in extreme severity; putting him, when he visits at Snigsworthy Park, under a kind of martial law; ordaining that he shall hang his hat on a particular peg, sit on a particular chair, talk on particular subjects to particular people, and perform particular exercises: such as sounding the praises of the Family Varnish (not to say Pictures), and abstaining from the choicest of the Family Wines unless expressly invited to partake.
‘One thing, however, I can do for you,’ says Twemlow; ‘and that is, work for you.’
Veneering blesses him again.
‘I’ll go,’ says Twemlow, in a rising hurry of spirits, ‘to the club;—let us see now; what o’clock is it?’
‘Twenty minutes to eleven.’
‘I’ll be,’ says Twemlow, ‘at the club by ten minutes to twelve, and I’ll never leave it all day.’
Veneering feels that his friends are rallying round him, and says, ‘Thank you, thank you. I knew I could rely upon you. I said to Anastatia before leaving home just now to come to you—of course the first friend I have seen on a subject so momentous to me, my dear Twemlow—I said to Anastatia, “We must work.”’
‘You were right, you were right,’ replies Twemlow. ‘Tell me. Is she working?’
‘She is,’ says Veneering.
‘Good!’ cries Twemlow, polite little gentleman that he is. ‘A woman’s tact is invaluable. To have the dear sex with us, is to have everything with us.’
‘But you have not imparted to me,’ remarks Veneering, ‘what you think of my entering the House of Commons?’
‘I think,’ rejoins Twemlow, feelingly, ‘that it is the best club in London.’
Veneering again blesses him, plunges down stairs, rushes into his Hansom, and directs the driver to be up and at the British Public, and to charge into the City.
Meanwhile Twemlow, in an increasing hurry of spirits, gets his hair down as well as he can—which is not very well; for, after these glutinous applications it is restive, and has a surface on it somewhat in the nature of pastry—and gets to the club by the appointed time. At the club he promptly secures a large window, writing materials, and all the newspapers, and establishes himself; immoveable, to be respectfully contemplated by Pall Mall. Sometimes, when a man enters who nods to him, Twemlow says, ‘Do you know Veneering?’ Man says, ‘No; member of the club?’ Twemlow says, ‘Yes. Coming in for Pocket-Breaches.’ Man says, ‘Ah! Hope he may find it worth the money!’ yawns, and saunters out. Towards six o’clock of the afternoon, Twemlow begins to persuade himself that he is positively jaded with work, and thinks it much to be regretted that he was not brought up as a Parliamentary agent.
From Twemlow’s, Veneering dashes at Podsnap’s place of business. Finds Podsnap reading the paper, standing, and inclined to be oratorical over the astonishing discovery he has made, that Italy is not England. Respectfully entreats Podsnap’s pardon for stopping the flow of his words of wisdom, and informs him what is in the wind. Tells Podsnap that their political opinions are identical. Gives Podsnap to understand that he, Veneering, formed his political opinions while sitting at the feet of him, Podsnap. Seeks earnestly to know whether Podsnap ‘will rally round him?’
Says Podsnap, something sternly, ‘Now, first of all, Veneering, do you ask my advice?’
Veneering falters that as so old and so dear a friend—
‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well,’ says Podsnap; ‘but have you made up your mind to take this borough of Pocket-Breaches on its own terms, or do you ask my opinion whether you shall take it or leave it alone?’
Veneering repeats that his heart’s desire and his soul’s thirst are, that Podsnap shall rally round him.
‘Now, I’ll be plain with you, Veneering,’ says Podsnap, knitting his brows. ‘You will infer that I don’t care about Parliament, from the fact of my not being there?’
Why, of course Veneering knows that! Of course Veneering knows that if Podsnap chose to go there, he would be there, in a space of time that might be stated by the light and thoughtless as a jiffy.
‘It is not worth my while,’ pursues Podsnap, becoming handsomely mollified, ‘and it is the reverse of important to my position. But it is not my wish to set myself up as law for another man, differently situated. You think it is worth your while, and IS important to your position. Is that so?’
Always with the proviso that Podsnap will rally round him, Veneering thinks it is so.
‘Then you don’t ask my advice,’ says Podsnap. ‘Good. Then I won’t give it you. But you do ask my help. Good. Then I’ll work for you.’
Veneering instantly blesses him, and apprises him that Twemlow is already working. Podsnap does not quite approve that anybody should be already working—regarding it rather in the light of a liberty—but tolerates Twemlow, and says he is a well-connected old female who will do no harm.
‘I have nothing very particular to do to-day,’ adds Podsnap, ‘and I’ll mix with some influential people. I had engaged myself to dinner, but I’ll send Mrs Podsnap and get off going myself; and I’ll dine with you at eight. It’s important we should report progress and compare notes. Now, let me see. You ought to have a couple of active energetic fellows, of gentlemanly manners, to go about.’
Veneering,
