"I'm aware, sir, that he had talent, Mr. Dingwell, and could speak--about it. At Oxford he was considered the most promising young man of his time--almost." "Yes, except _you_; but you were two years later." "Yes, exactly. I was precisely two years later about it." "Yes, my lord, you were always about it; so he told me. No matter what it was--a book, or a boot-jack, or a bottle of port, you were always about it. It was a way you had, he said--about it." "I wasn't aware that anyone remarked any such thing--about it," said Lord Verney, very loftily. It dawned dimly upon him that Mr. Dingwell, who was a very irregular person, was possibly intoxicated. But Mr. Dingwell was speaking, though in a very nasal, odd voice, yet with a clear and sharp articulation, and in a cool way, not the least like a man in that sort of incapacity. Lord Verney concluded, therefore, that Mr. Dingwell was either a remarkably impertinent person, or most insupportably deficient in the commonest tact. I think he would have risen, even at the inconvenience of suddenly disturbing his flannelled foot, and intimated that he did not feel quite well enough to continue the conversation, had he not known something of Mr. Dingwell's dangerous temper, and equally dangerous knowledge and opportunities; for had they not subsidized Mr. Dingwell, in the most unguarded manner, and on the most monstrous scale, pending the investigation and proof before the Lords? "It was inevitable," Mr. Larkin said, "but also a little awkward; although _they_ knew that the man had sworn nothing but truth." _Very_ awkward, _Lord Verney_ thought, and therefore he endured Mr. Dingwell. But the "great Greek merchant," as, I suppose half jocularly, he termed himself, not only seemed odious at this moment, by reason of his impertinence, but also formidable to Lord Verney, who, having waked from his dream that Dingwell would fly beyond the Golden Horn when once his evidence was given, and the coronet well fixed on the brows of the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney, found himself still haunted by this vampire bat, which hung by its hooked wing, sometimes in the shadows of Rosemary Court--sometimes in those of the old Steward's House--sometimes hovering noiselessly nearer--always with its eyes upon him, threatening to fasten on his breast, and drain him. The question of money he would leave "to his discretion." But what did his impertinence mean? Was it not minatory? And to what exorbitant sums in a choice of evils might not "discretion" point? "This d--d Mr. Dingwell," thought Lord Verney "will play the devil with my gout. I wish he was at the bottom of the Bosphorus." "Yes. And your brother, Arthur--there were points in which he differed from you. Unless I'm misinformed, he was a first-rate cricketer, the crack bat of their team, and you were _nothing_; he was one of the best Grecians in the university, and you were plucked."