"I--I don't exactly see the drift of your rather inaccurate and extremely offensive observations, Mr. Dingwell," said Lord Verney, wincing and flushing in the dark. "Offensive? Good heaven! But I'm talking to a Verney, to a man of genius; and I say, how the devil could I tell that _truth_ could offend, either? With this reflection I forgive _myself_, and I go on to say what will interest you." Lord Verney, who had recovered his presence of mind, here nodded, to intimate that he was ready to hear him. "Well, there were a few other points, but I need not mention them, in which you differed. You were both alike in this--each was a genius--you were an opaque and obscure genius, he a brilliant one; but each being a genius, there must have been a sympathy, notwithstanding his being a publican and you a--not exactly a Pharisee, but a paragon of prudence." "I really, Mr. Dingwell, must request--you see I'm far from well, about it--that you'll be so good as a little to abridge your remarks; and I don't want to hear--you can easily, I hope, understand--my poor brother talked of in any but such terms as a brother should listen to." "That arises, Lord Verney, from your not having had the advantage of his society for so very many years. Now, I knew him intimately, and I can undertake to say he did not care twopence what any one on earth thought of him, and it rather amused him painting infernal caricatures of himself, as a fiend or a monkey, and he often made me laugh by the hour--ha, ha, ha! he amused himself with revealed religion, and with everything sacred, sometimes even with _you_--ha, ha, ha--he _had_ certainly a wonderful sense of the ridiculous." "May I repeat my request, if it does not appear to you _very_ unreasonable?" again interrupted Lord Verney, "and may I entreat to know what it is you wish me to understand about it, in as few words as you can, sir?" "Certainly, Lord Verney; it is just this. As I have got materials, perfectly authentic, from my deceased friend, both about himself--horribly racy, you may suppose--ha, ha, ha--about your grand-uncle Pendel--you've heard of him, of course--about your aunt Deborah, poor thing, who sold mutton pies in Chester,--I was thinking--suppose I write a memoir--Arthur alone deserves it; you pay the expenses; I take the profits, and I throw you in the copyright for a few thousand more, and call it, 'Snuffed-out lights of the Peerage,' or something of the kind? I think something is due to Arthur--don't you?" "I think you can hardly be serious, Mr.--Mr.----" "Perfectly serious, upon my soul, my lord. Could anything be more curious? Eccentricity's the soul of genius, and you're proud of your genius, I _hope_."