“Cursed rot,” muttered the Squire. “That man will ruin the country. See if he don’t disestablish and disendow you, Archdeacon, before he dies.”
“Mr. Gladstone’s a good Churchman, I always understood,” demurred Edward.
“He’d rob his grandmother for power,” vowed the Squire.
“Perhaps Mr. Beaumont is an admirer of his?” queried his host.
“My grandfather was a Whig, my father a Liberal, and you may write me down a——”
“‘Not an ass,’ that’s the correct quotation, I believe.”
“That’s worse!” said the Squire, with emphasis.
“Radical lawyers are _raræaves_ are they not, Mr. Beaumont?” asked the Archdeacon.
“Black swans. Black enough, I suppose, Mr. Wright thinks. Well, yes, in the country, men of my branch of the profession are generally Conservative. I don’t know why, except it be that they have the sense to know on which side their bread is buttered.”
“Of course,” said the Squire; “the law and the land.”
“But in my town,” said Edward, “there’s only one landlord and we can’t all live on him. But we manage to butter our bread pretty well all the same.”
“No more wine, Mr. Beaumont? Then we’ll see if Miss St. Clair can give us a cup of tea.”