“I see you have had our Lowick Cicero here,” she said, seating herself comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and showing a thin but well-built figure.
“I suspect you and he are brewing some bad politics, else you would not be seeing so much of the lively man. I shall inform against you: remember you are both suspicious characters since you took Peel’s side about the Catholic Bill. I shall tell everybody that you are going to put up for Middlemarch on the Whig side when old Pinkerton resigns, and that Casaubon is going to help you in an underhand manner: going to bribe the voters with pamphlets, and throw open the public-houses to distribute them. Come, confess!”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Brooke, smiling and rubbing his eyeglasses, but really blushing a little at the impeachment. “Casaubon and I don’t talk politics much. He doesn’t care much about the philanthropic side of things; punishments, and that kind of thing. He only cares about Church questions. That is not my line of action, you know.”
“Ra-a-ther too much, my friend. I have heard of your doings. Who was it that sold his bit of land to the Papists at Middlemarch? I believe you bought it on purpose. You are a perfect Guy Faux. See if you are not burnt in effigy this 5th of November coming. Humphrey would not come to quarrel with you about it, so I am come.”
“Very good. I was prepared to be persecuted for not persecuting—not persecuting, you know.”
“There you go! That is a piece of claptrap you have got ready for the hustings.