“Yes, I _have_ heard Dr. Shrapnel say that. And, by-the-way, Cecilia—will you? can you?—take me for the witness to his character. He is the most guileless of men, and he’s the most unguarded. My good Rosamund saw him. She is easily prejudiced when she is a trifle jealous, and you may hear from her that he rambles, talks wildly. It may seem so. I maintain there is wisdom in him when conventional minds would think him at his wildest. Believe me, he is the humanest, the best of men, tenderhearted as a child: the most benevolent, simple-minded, admirable old man—the man I am proudest to think of as an Englishman and a man living in my time, of all men existing. I can’t overpraise him.” “He has a bad reputation.” “Only with the class that will not meet him and answer him.” “Must we invite him to our houses?” “It would be difficult to get him to come, if you did. I mean, meet him in debate and answer his arguments. Try the question by brains.” “Before mobs?” “_Not_ before mobs. I punish you by answering you seriously.” “I am sensible of the flattery.” “Before mobs!” Nevil ejaculated. “It’s the Tories that mob together and cry down every man who appears to them to threaten their privileges. Can you guess what Dr. Shrapnel compares them to?” “Indeed, Nevil, I have not an idea. I only wish your patriotism were large enough to embrace them.” “He compares them to geese claiming possession of the whole common, and hissing at every foot of ground they have to yield. They’re always having to retire and always hissing. ‘Retreat and menace,’ that’s the motto for them.” “Very well, Nevil, I am a goose upon a common.” So saying, Cecilia swam forward like a swan on water to give the morning kiss to her papa, by the open window of the breakfast-room. Never did bird of Michaelmas fling off water from her feathers more thoroughly than this fair young lady the false title she pretended to assume. “I hear you’re of the dinner party at Grancey Lespel’s on Wednesday,” the colonel said to Beauchamp. “You’ll have to stand fire.” “_They_ will, papa,” murmured Cecilia. “Will Mr. Austin be there?” “I particularly wish to meet Mr. Austin,” said Beauchamp. “Listen to him, if you do meet him,” she replied. His look was rather grave. “Lespel’s a Whig,” he said. The colonel answered. “Lespel _was_ a Whig. Once a Tory always a Tory,—but court the people and you’re on quicksands, and that’s where the Whigs are. What he is now I don’t think he knows himself. You won’t get a vote.” Cecilia watched her friend Nevil recovering from his short fit of gloom. He dismissed politics at breakfast and grew companionable, with the charm of his earlier day. He was willing to accompany her to church too. “You will hear a long sermon,” she warned him. “Forty minutes.” Colonel Halkett smothered a yawn that was both retro and prospective. “It has been fifty, papa.” “It has been an hour, my dear.”