“After all, the stage of pretension is anything but pleasant, and I cannot but regret that we have not come to some arrangement.” “Can _I_ be of use? Could _my_ services be employed to any advantage?” “At a moment, I cannot answer; but I am very grateful for even the thought.” “I cannot pretend to any influence with the family. Indeed, none of them ever liked me; but they might listen to me, and they might also believe that _my_ interest went with their own. Would you like to meet Augustus Bramleigh?” “There is nothing I desire so much.” “I 'll not promise he 'll come; but if he should consent, will you come here on Tuesday morning--say, at eleven o'clock--and meet him? I know he 's expected at Albano by Sunday, and I 'll have a letter to propose the meeting, in his hands, on his arrival.” “I have no words to speak my gratitude to you.” CHAPTER XLIII. A SPECIAL MISSION When a very polite note from Lord Culduff to Mr. Cutbill expressed the deep regret he felt at not being able to receive that gentleman at dinner, as an affair of much moment required his immediate presence at Naples, the noble lord was more correct than it was his usual fate to be in matters of apology. The fact was, that his Lordship had left England several weeks before, charged with a most knotty and difficult mission to the Neapolitan court; and though the question involved the misery of imprisonment to some of the persons concerned, and had called forth more than one indignant appeal for information in the House, the great diplomatist sauntered leisurely over the Continent, stopping to chat with a Minister here, or dine with a reigning Prince there, not suffering himself to be hurried by the business before him, or in any way influenced by the petulant despatches and telegrams which F. O. persistently sent after him. One of his theories was, that in diplomacy everything should be done in a sort of dignified languor that excluded all thought of haste or of emergency. “Haste implies pressure,” he would say, “and pressure means weakness: therefore, always seem slow, occasionally even to indolence.” There was no denying it, he was a great master in that school of his art which professed to baffle every effort at inquiry. No man ever wormed a secret from him that he desired to retain, or succeeded in entrapping him into any accidental admission. He could talk for hours with a frankness that was positively charming. He could display a candor that seemed only short of indiscretion; and yet, when you left him, you found you had carried away nothing beyond some neatly turned aphorisms and a few very harmless imitations of Machiavelian subtlety. Like certain men who are fond of showing how they can snuff a candle with a bullet, he was continually exhibiting his skill at fence, with the added assurance that nothing would grieve him so ineffably as any display of his ability at your expense.