Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored. When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance to society.
“You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?” says my Lady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almost read a page in twenty miles.
“Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever.”
“I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s long effusions, I think?”
“You see everything,” says Sir Leicester with admiration.
“Ha!” sighs my Lady. “He is the most tiresome of men!”
“He sends—I really beg your pardon—he sends,” says Sir Leicester, selecting the letter and unfolding it, “a message to you. Our stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out of my memory. I beg you’ll excuse me. He says—” Sir Leicester is so long in taking out his eyeglass and adjusting it that my Lady looks a little irritated. “He says ‘In the matter of the right of way—’ I beg your pardon, that’s not the place. He says—yes! Here I have it! He says, ‘I beg my respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change. Will you do me the favour to mention (as it may interest her) that I have something to tell her on her return in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen him.’ ”
My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.
“That’s the message,” observes Sir Leicester.