for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes for the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which Sir Leicester holds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who have no occupation in life present the appearance of being rather busy. Daily Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with Sir Leicester on the state of the nation, from which Sir Leicester is disposed to conclude that Volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he had thought her.
“How are we getting on?” says Miss Volumnia, clasping her hands. “ Are we safe?”
The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle will throw himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Leicester has just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a bright particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.
“Volumnia,” replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hand, “we are doing tolerably.”
“Only tolerably!”
Although it is summer weather, Sir Leicester always has his own particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened seat near it and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasure, as who should say, I am not a common man, and when I say tolerably, it must not be understood as a common expression, “Volumnia, we are doing tolerably.”
“At least there is no opposition to you ,” Volumnia asserts with confidence.
“No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in many respects, I grieve to say, but—”
“It is not so mad as that. I am glad to hear it!”