"Indeed!" said the Whip with good-humour, "there is still some one, then, who bothers about us."
She lifted her shoulders slightly, as one who would disclaim a personal participation in the folly.
"Doesn't every one?" she asked.
"Why, we talk of ourselves," said he laughing, "but I did not know any one else took an interest in us. We have outlived our time, you see. We are early Victorians, so to speak. Representative government is a glorious tradition, like the English flag or Balaclava—very brave, very wonderful, but very unimportant. I know we bulk largely in the newspapers. It is our métier. But I wonder why. The habit exists when the utility is fled. Is it because the advertisers love us, do you think? It is the only reason I can conceive. We all owe our being to the Births, Deaths and Marriages. The servant-girl, my dear Mrs. Rosewarne, confers upon me the fame of a Tuesday s issue, for the shilling she expends upon a Wanted. Alas!" He pulled his features into an expression of dismay. "When the hoarding and the sky-sign come in we shall go out."
Mrs. Rosewarne laughed gently, a demure intelligence shining from her eyes.
"And you," said he quizzically, "you don't care for us?"
"Oh, I!" she retorted with a sigh. "Yes, I talk of you. I am obliged to talk of you over the hearth-rug. I assure you I have all your names by rote, and rattle them off like a poll-parrot."
"Ah!" said Lord Hambleton, peering into her face curiously; "I can appreciate your tone. You are weary of us."
"Frankly, yes," said she, smiling. They both laughed, and he made a gesture of apology.
"Why?" he asked.
