The important hour drew nigh. Christmas was to be passed by the Carabas family, the Beaconsfields, the Scropes, and the Clevelands at Lord Courtown’s villa at Richmond; at which place, on account of its vicinity to the metropolis, the Viscount had determined to make out the holidays, notwithstanding the Thames entered his kitchen windows, and the Donna del Lago was acted in the theatre with real water, Cynthia Courtown performing Elena, paddling in a punt. “Let us order our horses, Cleveland, round to the Piccadilly gate, and walk through the Guards. I must stretch my legs. That bore, Horace Buttonhole, captured me in Pall Mall East, and has kept me in the same position for upwards of half an hour. I shall make a note to blackball him at the Athenaeum. How is Mrs. Cleveland?” “Extremely well. She goes down to Buckhurst Lodge with Lady Carabas. Is not that Lord Lowersdale?” “His very self. He is going to call on Vivida Vis, I have no doubt. Lowersdale is a man of very considerable talent; much more than the world gives him credit for.” “And he doubtless finds a very able counsellor in Monsieur le Sécrétaire?” “Can you name a better one?” “You rather patronise Vivida, I think, Grey?” “Patronise him! he is my political pet!” “And yet Kerrison tells me you reviewed the Suffolk papers in the Edinburgh.” “So I did; what of that? I defended them in Blackwood.” “This, then, is the usual method of you literary gentlemen. Thank God! I never could write a line.” “York House rises proudly; if York House be its name.” “This confounded Catholic Question is likely to give us a great deal of trouble, Grey. It is perfect madness for us to advocate the cause of the ‘six millions of hereditary bondsmen;’ and yet, with not only the Marchese, but even Courtown and Beaconsfield committed, it is, to say the least, a very delicate business.” “Very delicate, certainly; but there are some precedents, I suspect, Cleveland, for the influence of a party being opposed to measures which the heads of that party had pledged themselves to adopt.” “Does old Gifford still live at Pimlico, Grey?” “Still.” “He is a splendid fellow, after all.” “Certainly, a mind of great powers, but bigoted.” “Oh, yes! I know exactly what you are going to say. It is the fashion, I am aware, to abuse the old gentleman. He is the Earl of Eldon of literature; not the less loved because a little vilified. But, when I just remember what Gifford has done; when I call to mind the perfect and triumphant success of everything he has undertaken; the Anti-Jacobin, the Baviad and Maeviad, the Quarterly; all palpable hits, on the very jugular; I hesitate before I speak of William Gifford in any other terms, or in any other spirit, than those of admiration and of gratitude.