A British
crowd does not easily attack one whom it knows as a neighbour and
born superior; and it paid homage now to one who, having earned it
all his life, carelessly took it for granted.
"Begad, sir," said Mr. Fett in my ear, "and the books say that the
feudal system is dead in England! Why, here's the very flower of it!
Damme, though, the old gentleman is splendid; superlative, sir;
it's ten to one against Coriolanus, and no takers. Between
ourselves, Coriolanus was a pretty fellow, but talked too much.
Phocion, sir? Did I hear you mention Phocion?"
"You did not," I answered.
"And quite right," said he; "with your father running, I wouldn't
back Phocion for a place. All the same," Mr. Fett admitted, "this is
what Mr. Gray of Peterhouse, Cambridge, would call a fearful joy, and
I'd be thankful for a distant prospect of the way out of it."
"Indeed, sir"--my father, overhearing this, turned to him affably--
"you touch the weak spot. For the moment I see no way out of the
situation, nor any chance but to prolong it; and even this," he
added, "will not be easy unless the lady on the lamp-post sensibly
alters the tone of her discourse.
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