Читать книгу: «Luttrell Of Arran», страница 38

“I am much flattered to find, Sir Within, that you remember the incident, though I see how trying it proves to Mr. Grenfell’s patience.”

“Not in the least, if you will only consent to start by the morning’s train instead of to-night’s. Do that, and you will find you never had a more patient nor more interested listener.”

“Perfectly impossible, Sir. I have timed the whole journey by Bradshaw; and to catch the mail-boat – the Queen Hortense– at Marseilles, on Saturday, I must arrive by the early train, and there is the half-hour now chiming. I trust Sir Within Wardle will forgive my abrupt leave-taking. One more glass of this excellent claret, and I am off.”

“Pray give my very kindest regards to Sir Gervais, and my most respectful homage to the ladies. Though I am not permitted to learn how the good fortune came, let me, I beg, be associated with every congratulation the event inspires.” And with this Frenchified expression of his satisfaction, the old diplomatist drew himself up like one who felt that he stood once more on his native heath.

So wrapt up was he, indeed, in this revival of an old part he had so long played with success, that he never noticed how Grenfell had left the room along with M’Kinlay, and he sat gazing at the fire and thinking over bygones. Nor was he aware how time flitted past, when Grenfell returned and took his place opposite him.

“I was determined to have all I could get out of him,” said Grenfell. “I jumped into the cab with him, and went to the railroad station. What between his dreary tiresomeness and the street noises as we rattled along, I gained very little; but this much I have learned: That the man Gennet, who had once, as the lawyers call it, ‘compassed’ the life of Dodge, by sending him to sea in a rotten vessel, immensely insured, and predestined to shipwreck, was recognised by this same skipper in the street at Tripoli. Dodge, it seems, had just been landed with one other survivor of his crew, having blown up his vessel to prevent its falling into the hands of some Riff pirates, and after unheard-of peril and sufferings was picked up at sea with his companion, both badly wounded by the explosion, though they had thrown themselves into the sea before the vessel blew up. All I could do would not hurry M’Kinlay over this part of the story, which I believe he imagined he told effectively, and I had only got him to Tripoli as we drove into the yard of the station. While higgling with the cabman and the porters, he stammered out something about Dodge standing at his Consul’s door as Gennet rode past with a large suite of Arab followers; that the skipper sprang upon him like a tiger and tore him from his horse. A dreadful struggle must have ensued, for Gennet died of his wounds that night, and Dodge was nearly cut to pieces by the guard, his life being saved by the desperate bravery of his friend, who was at last rescued by the members of the Consulate. The bell rang as we arrived at this critical moment, but I followed him to his compartment, and, at the risk of being carried off, sat down beside him. The miserable proser wanted to involve me in an account of the criminal law of Tripoli when any one holding office under the Bey should have been the victim of attack, but I swore I knew it perfectly, and asked what about Gennet? He then began to narrate how the French Consul, having intervened to defend the interests of his countryman, discovered the whole plot against France, found all the details of the purchase of war materials, bills of lading, and such-like: and, besides these, masses of Vyner’s acceptances, which had never been negotiated. Another – the last – bell now rang out, and as I sprang from my seat he leaned out of the window, and said: ‘Dodge, it is thought, will recover; his friend is now with Sir Gervais, at Chiavari, and turns out to be Luttrell, the young fellow whom we picked up – ’ When, where, or how, I cannot say, for the train now moved on, and the tiresome old dog was carried off at a very different pace from that of his narrative.”

Sir Within listened with all the semblance of interest and attention. Once or twice he interjected an “Ah!” or, “How strange!” But it is only truthful to own that he paid very little real attention to the story, and could not well have said at the end whether Dodge was not the villain of the piece, and young Luttrell his guilty accomplice.

Very grateful was he, however, when it ended, and when Grenfell said, “I suppose Vyner has had enough of speculation now to last his lifetime.”

“I trust so sincerely,” said Sir Within, with a smile.

“It is such rank folly for a man to adventure into a career of which he knows nothing, and take up as his associates a set of men totally unlike any he has ever lived with.”

“I perfectly agree with you,” said the other, with an urbane bow. “You have admirably expressed the sentiment I experience at this moment; and even with my brief opportunity of arriving at a judgment, I am free to confess that I thought this gentleman who has just left us, Mr. M’Kinlay, I think he is called – a very dangerous man – a most dangerous man.”

Grenfell looked at him, and fortunate was it that Sir Within did not note that look, so full was it of pitiless contempt; and then rising, he said, “It is later than I thought. You said something about Versailles for to-morrow, didn’t you?”

“I have not heard whether his Majesty will receive me.”

Grenfell started, and stared at him. Had it come to this already? Was the mind gone and the intellect shattered?

“You spoke of a day in the country somewhere,” reiterated Grenfell “St. Germains, or Versailles.”

“Very true. I am most grateful for your reminder. It will be charming. I am quite in the humour for a few pleasant people, and I hope the weather will favour us.”

“Good-night,” said Grenfell abruptly, and left the room.

CHAPTER LIX. MR. GRENFELL’S ROOM

Mr. Grenfell sat in an easy-chair, wrapped in a most comfortable dressing-gown, and his feet encased in the softest of slippers, before a cheery wood fire, smoking. His reflections were not depressing. The scene from which he had just come satisfied him as to a fact – which men like Grenfell have a sort of greedy appetite to be daily assured of – that “Money is not everything in this world.” Simple as the proposition seems, it takes a long and varied knowledge of life to bring home that conviction forcibly and effectually. Men are much more prone to utter it than to believe it, and more ready to believe it than to act upon it.

Now, though Grenfell was ready to admit that “Money was not everything,” he coupled it with what he believed to be just as true – that it was a man’s own fault that made it so. He instanced to his mind the old man he had just quitted, and who, except in the quality of years, was surrounded with everything one could desire – name, fortune, station, more than average abilities, and good health – and yet he must needs fall in love! By what fatality was it that a man always chose the worst road? What malevolent ingenuity ever selected the precise path that led to ruin? Were there no other vices he could have taken to? Wine, gambling, gluttony, would have spared his intellect for a year or two certainly. The brains of old people stand common wear and tear pretty well; it is only when the affections come to bear upon the mind that the system gives way. That a man should assume old age gracefully and becomingly, the heart ought to decay and grow callous, just as naturally as hair whitens and teeth fail. Nature never contemplated such a compact as that the blood at seventy should circulate as at thirty, and that the case-hardened, world-worn man should have a revival of Hope, Trustfulness, and Self-delusion. It was thus Grenfell regarded the question, and the view was not the less pleasing that he felt how safely he stood as regards all those seductions which fool other men and render their lives ridiculous. At all events, the world should not laugh at him. This is a philosophy that suffices for a large number of people in life; and simple as the first element of it may seem, it involves more hard-heartedness, more cruel indifference to others, and a more practical selfishness, than any other code I know of.

If he was well pleased that Vyner should “come all right again,” it was because he liked a rich friend far better than a poor one; but there mingled with his satisfaction a regret that he had not made overtures to the Vyners – the “women,” he called them – in their hour of dark fortune, and established with them a position he could continue to maintain in their prosperity. “Yes,” thought he, “I ought to have been taught by those people who always courted the Bourbons in their exile, and speculated on their restoration.” But the restoration of the Vyner dynasty was a thing he had never dreamed of. Had he only had the very faintest clue to it, what a game he might have played! What generous proffers he might have made, how ready he might have been with his aid! It is only just to him to own that he very rarely was wanting in such prescience; he studied life pretty much as a physician studies disease, and argued from the presence of one symptom what was to follow it.

His present speculations took this form. Vyner will at once return to England, and go back to “the House;” he’ll want occupation, and he’ll want, besides, to reinstate himself with the world. With his position and his abilities – fair abilities they were – he may aspire to office, and Grenfell liked official people. They were a sort of priesthood, who could slip a friend into the sanctuary occasionally, not to add, that all privileged classes have an immense attraction for the man whose birth has debarred him from their intimacy. Now, he could not present himself more auspiciously to the Vyners than in the company of Sir Within Wardle, who was most eager to renew all his former relations with them. Nor was it quite impossible but that Grenfell might seem to be the agency by which the reconciliation was brought about. A clever stroke of policy that, and one which would doubtless go far to render him acceptable to the “women.”

If we must invade the secresy of a very secret nature, we must confess that Mr. Grenfell, in his gloomier hours, in his dark days at home, when dyspeptic and depressed, speculated on the possible event that he might at last be driven to marry. He thought of it the way men think of the precautions instilled by a certain time of life, the necessity of more care in diet, more regular hours, and such-like.

There would come a time, he suspected, when country-houses would be less eager for him, and the young fellows who now courted and surrounded him, would have themselves slipped into “mediævalty,” and need him no more. It was sad enough to think of, but he saw it, he knew it. Nothing, then, remained but a wife.

It was all-essential – indeed indispensable – that she should be a person of family and connexions; one, in fact, that might be able to keep open the door of society – even half ajar – but still enough to let him slip in and mingle with those inside. Vyner’s sister-in-law was pretty much what he wanted. She was no longer young, and consequently her market-value placed her nearer to his hopes; and although Sir Gervais had never yet made him known to Lady Vyner or Georgina, things were constantly done abroad that could not have occurred at home. Men were dear friends on the Tiber who would not have been known to each other on the Thames. The result of all his meditations was, that he must persuade Sir Within to cross the Alps, and then, by some lucky chance or other, come unexpectedly upon the Vyners. Fortune should take care of the rest.

Arrived at this conclusion, and his third cigar all but smoked out, he was thinking of bed, when a tap came to his door. Before he had well time to say “Come in,” the door opened, and young Ladarelle’s valet, Mr. Fisk, stood before him.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Sir,” said he, submissively, “for obtruding upon you at such an hour, but I have been all over Paris, and only found out where you were this minute. I was at the station this evening when you drove up there, but I lost you in the crowd, and never could find you again.”

“All which zeal implies that you had some business with me,” said Grenfell, slowly.

“Yes, Sir, certainly. It is what I mean, Sir,” said he, wiping his forehead, and betraying by his manner a considerable amount of agitation.

“Now, then, what is it?”

“It is my master, Sir, Mr. Adolphus Ladarelle, has got into trouble – very serious trouble, I’m afraid, too – and if you can’t help him through it, there’s nobody can, I’m sure.”

“A duel?”

“No, Sir, he don’t fight.”

“Debt?”

“Not exactly debt, Sir, but he has been arrested within the last few hours.”

“Out with it. What’s the story?”

“You have heard about that Irish business, I suppose, Sir – that story of the young girl he pretended to have married to prevent Sir Within making her my Lady – ”

“I know it all; go on.”

“Well, Sir, the worst of all that affair was, that it brought my master into close intimacy with a very dangerous fellow called O’Rorke, and though Mr. Ladarelle paid him – and paid him handsomely, too – for all he had done, and took his passage out to Melbourne, the fellow wouldn’t go. No, Sir, he swore he’d see Paris, and enjoy a little of Paris life, before he’d sail. I was for getting him aboard when he was half drunk, and shipping him off before he was aware of it; but my master was afraid of him, and declared that he was quite capable of coming back from the farthest end of the world to ‘serve him out’ for anything like ‘a cross.’”

“Go on – come to the arrest – what was it for?” broke in Grenfell, impatiently.

“Cheating at cards, Sir,” plumped out the other, half vexed at being deemed prosy. “That’s the charge, Sir; false cards and cogged dice, and the police have them in their hands this minute. It was all this fellow’s doing, Sir; it was he persuaded Mr. Dolly to set up the rooms, and the tables, and here’s what it’s come to!” “And there was false play?”

“So they say, Sir. One of the ladies that was taken up is well known to the police; she is an Italian Marchioness – at least they call her so – and the story goes ‘well protected,’ as they say here.”

“I don’t see that there’s anything to be done in the matter, Fisk; the law will deal with them, and pretty sharply, too, and none can interfere with it. Are you compromised yourself?”

“No, Sir, not in the least. I was back and forward to Town once or twice a week getting bills discounted and the like, but I never went near the rooms. I took good care of that.”

“Such being the case, I suspect your affection for your master will not prove fatal to you – eh?”

“Perhaps not, Sir; a strong constitution and reg’lar habit may help me over it, but there’s another point I ain’t so easy about. Mr. Dolly has got a matter of nigh four hundred pounds of mine. I lent it at twenty-five per cent, to him last year, and I begin to fear the security is not what it ought to be.”

“There’s something in that, certainly,” said Grenfell, slowly. “Yes, Sir, there’s a great deal in it, because they say here, if Mr. Dolly should be sent to the galleys ever so short a time, he loses civil rights, and when he loses them, he needn’t pay no debts to any one.”

“Blessed invention those galleys must be, if they could give the immunity you mention!” said Grenfell, laughing; “but I opine your law is not quite accurate – at any rate, Fisk, there’s nothing to be done for him. If he stood alone in the case, it is just possible there would be a chance of helping him, but here he must accept the lot of his associates. By the way, what did he mean by that mock marriage? What was the object of it?” This query of Grenfell’s was thrown out in a sort of random carelessness, its real object being to see if Mr. Fisk was on “the square” with him.

“Don’t you know, Sir, that he wanted to prevent the old gent at Dalradern from marrying her? One of the great lawyers thinks that the estate doesn’t go to the Ladarelles at all if Sir Within had an heir, and though it’s not very likely, Sir, it might be possible. Master Dolly, at all events, was mortally afraid of it, and he always said that the mere chance cost him from fifteen to twenty per cent, in his dealings with money-lenders.”

“Are you known to Sir Within, Fisk? Has he seen you at the Castle?”

“Not to know me, Sir; he never notices any of us at all. Yates, his man, knows me.”

“Yates is not with him. He has got a French valet who lived with him some years ago, and so I was thinking, perhaps, the best way to serve you would be to take you myself. What do you say to it?”

“I’m ever grateful, Sir, to you. I couldn’t wish for anything better.”

“It will be pleasanter than ‘Clichy,’ at all events, Fisk, and there’s no doubt the police here will look out for you when they discover you were in Mr. Ladarelle’s service.”

“And am I safe here, Sir?”

“You’ll be safe, because we leave here to-morrow. So come over here after breakfast, and we’ll settle everything. By the way, I’d not go near Mr. Ladarelle if I were you; you can’t be of use to him, and it’s as well to take care of yourself.”

“I was just thinking that same, Sir; not to say that if that fellow O’Rorke saw me, it’s just as likely he’d say I was one of the gang.”

“Quite so. Be here about twelve or one, not later.”

“What do you think about my money, Sir – the loan to Mr. Dolly, I mean?”

“It’s not a choice investment, Fisk – at least, there are securities I would certainly prefer to it.”

“Three years’ wages and perquisites, Sir!” cried he, mournfully.

“Well, your master will probably have five years to ruminate over the wrong he has done you.”

“At the galleys? Do you really mean the galleys, Sir?”

“I really mean at the galleys, Fisk; and if he be not a more amusing companion there than I have found him in ordinary life, I can only say I do not envy the man he will be chained to.”

Mr. Fisk grinned a very hearty concurrence with the sentiment, and took a respectful leave, and withdrew.

CHAPTER LX. MR. M’KINLAY IN THE TOILS

Mr. M’KINLAY was too acute an observer not to see that his arrival at the Boschetto was matter of general satisfaction, and his welcome peculiarly cordial. The Vyners had just escaped from a heavy calamity, and were profuse of grateful emotions to all who had assisted them in their troubles.

Now, M’Kinlay had not been extravagant in his offices of friendship, but, with a sort of professional instinct, he had always contemplated the possibility of a restoration, and had never betrayed by his manner any falling off from his old terms of loyalty and devotion.

The Vyners, however, had their acute attack of gratitude, and they felt very warmly towards him, and even went so far as to designate by the word “delicacy” the cold reserve which he had once or twice manifested. Vyner gave him up his own room, and the little study adjoining it, and Georgina – the haughty Georgina – vouchsafed to look over its internal economies, and see that it was perfect in all its comforts. She went further; she actually avowed to him the part she had taken in his reception, and coquettishly engaged him to remember how much of his accommodation had depended on her foresight.

Mr. M’Kinlay was delighted; he had not been without certain misgivings, as he journeyed along over the Alps, that he might have shown himself a stronger, stauncher friend to Vyner in his hour of adversity. He had his doubts as to whether he had not been betrayed once or twice into a tone of rebuke or censure, and he knew he had assumed a manner of more freedom than consorted with their former relations. Would these lapses he remembered against him now? Should he find them all colder, stiffer, haughtier than ever?

What a relief to him was the gracious, the more than gracious, reception he met with! How pleasant to be thanked most enthusiastically for the long journey he had come, with the consciousness he was to be paid for it as handsomely afterwards! How lightly he took his fatigues, how cheerily he talked of everything, slyly insinuating now and then that if they would look back to his letters, they would see that he always pointed to this issue to the case, and for his part never felt that the matter was so serious as they deemed it. “Not that I ever permitted myself to hold out hopes which might prove delusive,” added he, “for I belong to a profession whose first maxim is, ‘Nothing is certain.’”

Nor was it merely kind or complimentary they were; they were confidential. Vyner would sit down at the fire with him, and tell all the little family secrets that are usually reserved for the members themselves; and Georgina would join him in the garden, to explain how she long foresaw the infatuation of her brother-in-law, but was powerless to arrest it; and even Lady Vyner – the cold and distant Lady Vyner – informed him, in the strictest secresy, that her dear mother had latterly taken a fondness for Malaga, and actually drank two full glasses of it every day more than the doctor permitted. What may not the man do in the household who is thus accepted and trusted? So, certainly, thought Mr. M’Kinlay, and as he strolled in the garden, apparently deep in thought over the Vyner complications, his real cares were, How was he himself to derive the fullest advantage of “the situation”?

“It is while towing the wreck into harbour the best bargain can be made for salvage,” muttered M’Kinlay. “I must employ the present moments well, since, once reinstated in their old prosperity, the old pride is sure to return.” He hesitated long what course to take. Prudence suggested the slow, cautious, patient approach; but then Miss Courtenay was one of those capricious natures whose sudden turns disconcert all regular siege. And, on the other hand, if he were to attempt a “surprise,” and failed, he should never recover it. He had ascertained that her fortune was safe; he had also learned that Mrs. Courtenay had made a will in her favour, though to what precise amount he could not tell; and he fancied – nor was it mere fancy – that she inclined far more to his society than heretofore, and seemed to encourage him to a greater frankness than he had yet dared to employ in his intercourse with her.

Partly because of the arduous task of investigating Vyner’s accounts, and partly that he was a man who required abundant time and quiet before he could make up his mind on any difficulty, he breakfasted alone in his own room, and rarely mixed with the family before dinner-hour. He knew well how all this seeming industry redounded to his credit; the little entreaties to him to take some fresh air, to take a walk or a drive, were all so many assurances of friendly interest in his behalf; and when Vyner would say, “Have a care, M’Kinlay; remember what’s to become of us if you knock up,” Lady Vyner’s glance of gratitude, and Miss Courtenay’s air of half confusion, were an incense that positively intoxicated him with ecstasy.

A short stroll in the garden he at last permitted himself to take, and of this brief period of relaxation he made a little daily history – one of those small jokes great men weave out of some little personal detail, which they have a conscious sense, perhaps, history will yet deal with more pompously.

“Five times from the orangery to the far summer-house to-day! There’s dissipation for you,” would he say, as he entered the drawing-room before dinner. “Really I feel like a pedestrian training for a race.” And how pleasantly would they laugh at his drollery, as we all do laugh every day at some stupid attempt at fun by those whose services we stand in need of, flattering ourselves the while that our sycophancy is but politeness.

Vyner was absent one day, and Mr. M’Kinlay took the head of the table, and did the honours with somewhat more pretension than the position required, alluding jocularly to his high estate and its onerous responsibilities, but the ladies liked his pleasantry, and treasured up little details of it to tell Sir Gervais on his return.

When they left him to his coffee and his cigar on the terrace, his feeling was little less than triumphant. “Yes,” thought he, “I have won the race; I may claim the cup when I please.” While he thus revelled, he saw, or fancied he saw, the flutter of a muslin dress in the garden beneath. Was it Georgina? Could it be that she had gone there designedly to draw him on to a declaration? If Mr. M’Kinlay appear to my fair readers less gallant than he might be, let them bear in mind that his years were not those which dispose to romance, and that he was only a “solicitor” by profession.

“Now or never, then,” said he, finishing a second liqueur-glass of brandy, and descending the steps into the garden.

Though within a few days of Christmas, the evening was mild and even genial, for Chiavari is one of those sheltered nooks where the oranges live out of doors through the winter, and enjoy a climate like that of Naples. It was some time before he could detect her he was in search of, and at last came suddenly to where she was gathering some fresh violets for a bouquet.

“What a climate – what a heavenly climate this is, Miss Courtenay!” said he, in a tone purposely softened and subdued for the occasion; and she started and exclaimed:

“Oh! how you frightened me, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay. I never heard you coming. I am in search of violets; come and help me, but only take the deep blue ones.”

Now, if Mr. M’Kinlay had been perfectly sure – which he was not – that her eyes were blue, he would have adventured on a pretty compliment, but, as a lawyer, he knew the consequences of “misdescription,” and he contented himself with expressing all the happiness he felt at being associated with her in any pursuit.

“Has my sister told you what Gervais has gone about?” asked she, still stooping to cull the flowers.

“Not a word of it.”

“Then I will, though certainly you scarcely deserve such a proof of my confidence, seeing how very guarded you are as to your own secrets.”

“I, my dear Miss Courtenay? I guarded! and towards you! I pray you tell me what you allude to.”

“By-and-by, perhaps; for the present, I want to speak of our own mysteries. Know, then, that my brother has gone to Genoa to bring back with him the young gentleman through whose means much of our late discovery has been made, and who turns out to be Mr. Luttrell. He was here for a couple of days already, but so overwhelmed by the news of his father’s death, that we scarcely saw anything of him. He then left us to go back and nurse his wounded friend the captain, who insists, it seems, on being treated in the public hospital.”

“Luttrell – Luttrell! You mean one of that family who lived on the rock off the Irish coast?”

“His son.”

“The boy I remember having rescued at the peril of my own life! I wonder will his memory recal it? And why is Sir Gervais – ”

He stopped; he was about to ask what interest could attach to any one so devoid of fortune, friends, or station, and she saw the meaning of his question, and said, though not without a certain confusion:

“My brother-in-law and this young man’s father were once on a time very intimate; he used to be a great deal with us – I am speaking of very long ago – and then we lost sight of him. A remote residence and an imprudent marriage estranged him from us, and the merest accident led my brother to where he lived – the barren island you spoke of – and renewed in some sort their old friendship – in so far, at least, that Gervais promised to be the guardian of his friend’s son – ”

“I remember it all; I took a part in the arrangement.”

“But it turns out there is nothing to take charge of. In a letter that my brother got from Mr. Grenfell some time since, we find that Mr. Luttrell has left everything he possessed to a certain niece or daughter. Which was she, Mr. M’Kinlay?”

“Niece, I always understood.”

“Which did you always believe?” said she, looking at him with a steady, unflinching stare.

“Niece, certainly.”

“Indeed?”

“On my word of honour.”

“And all this wonderful story about her beauty and captivation, and the running away and the secret marriage, how much of that does Mr. M’Kinlay believe?”

“I don’t know one word of what you allude to.”

“Oh, Mr. M’Kinlay, this is more than lawyer-like reserve!”

“I will swear it, if you desire.”

“But surely you’ll not say that you did not dine with Sir Within Wardle at the Hôtel Windsor, as you came through Paris?”

“I have not the slightest intention to deny it.”

“And is it possible, Mr. M’Kinlay, that nothing of what I have just mentioned was dropped during the dinner? No allusion to the beautiful Miss Luttrell, or Mrs. Ladarelle? Mr. Grenfell is in doubt which to call her.”

“Not a syllable; her name was never-uttered.”

“And what did you talk of, in Heaven’s name!” cried she, impatiently. “Was it town gossip and scandal?”

For a moment Mr. M’Kinlay was almost scared by her impetuosity, but he rallied, and assured her that Sir Within spoke with the warmest interest of Sir Gervais, and alluded in the most cordial way to their old relations of friendship, and with what pleasure he would renew them. “He charged me with innumerable kind messages, and almost his last word was a hope that he should be fortunate enough to meet you again.”

“And through all this no mention of the ‘beauty’ – I mean, of Miss Luttrell?”

“Not a word.”

“How strange – how incomprehensible!” said she, pausing, and seeming to reflect.

“Remember, my dear Miss Courtenay, it was a very hurried meeting altogether. We dined at half-past six, and at ten I was on the railroad.”

“Did Sir Within strike you as looking so very ill – so much cut upas Mr. Grenfell phrases it?”

“I thought him looking remarkably well; for a man of his age, wonderfully well. He must be – let me see – he must be – not very far from eighty.1’

“Not within ten years of it, Sir, I’m confident,” broke she in, almost fiercely. “There is no error more common than to overrate the age of distinguished men. The public infers that familiarity with their name implies long acquaintance, and it is a most absurd mistake.”