"Oh, certainly," says Mr. Dunlop; "don't mind me, I beg. Leave the whole work of the department on my shoulders, pray. You'll find I'm equal to the occasion, sir; and perhaps in some future time, when I have 'made by force my merit known'--when the Right Honourable William Dunlop is First Lord of the Treasury, has clutched the golden keys, and shaped the whisper of the Throne into saying in the ear of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, 'Put W. D. on the pension list for ten thou.'--I may thank you for having given me the opportunity of distinguishing myself!" CHAPTER XV. ON THE ALERT. "Well, George, old man, how are you? No need to ask, though. You're looking as fresh as a daisy, and that after a couple of hundred miles of rail, a long drive in a dog-cart, and a family dinner with people who were strangers to you! And after all that, you're up and out by nine o'clock. I told my people you were the most wonderful fellow in the world, and now I think they'd believe it." "I haven't done anything yet to assert any claim to such a character, at all events, Paul. I'm always an early riser, and most certainly I wasn't going to loaf away a splendid morning like this between the sheets. Where are the ladies and the Captain?" "My mother is generally occupied with domestic matters in the morning, and Annette never shows till later in the day. If the governor had had his will, he would have liked to be with us now. He was immensely fetched by you last night, and jabbered away as I have not heard him for years. But a little of the governor goes a long way; and I told him we had business to talk over this morning; so he's off on his own hook somewhere, poor old boy." "I don't think you appreciate your father quite sufficiently, Master Paul. He made himself remarkably agreeable last night; and there was a kind of _Pelham_ and _Tremaine_ flavour about his conversation which was particularly refreshing in this back-slapping, slangy age." "And Annette--what did you think of her?" "I was very much struck with her appearance. I'm not much of a judge in such matters, but surely she is very pretty." "Ya-as," said Paul with a half-conquering air, caressing his moustache; "ya-as, she is pretty. What did you think of her--of her altogether, you know?" "I thought her manner very charming. A little timid and nervous, as was natural on being introduced to a stranger. Well, even more than timid: a little weary, as though scarcely recovered from some illness or excitement." "Ah, that was her illness. She had a bout of it the very day I sent off my letter to you." "Well, she gave me that idea. But what on earth did you mean, young fellow, by telling me in that letter that your cousin was dull and _distraite_? I never saw anyone more interested or more interesting; and what she said about Wordsworth's sonnets and his poem of 'Ruth' was really admirably thought out and excellently put."