"One week."
"You will have enough to do," said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, "to gather all the materials you want, in that time."
"Eh, they are gathered," said the Count.
"Indeed!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"They are here," added the Count, tapping his forehead significantly. "Large book at home—full of notes—music, picture, science, poetry, poltic; all tings."
"The word politics, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "comprises, in itself, a difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude."
"Ah!" said the Count, drawing out the tablets again, "ver good—fine words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic surprises by himself—" And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in Count Smorltork's tablets, with such variations and additions as the Count's exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language, occasioned.
"Count," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
"Mrs. Hunt," replied the Count.
"This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet."
"Stop," exclaimed the Count, bringing out the tablets once more. "Head, potry—chapter, literary friends—name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced to Snowgrass—great poet, friend of Peek Weeks—by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem—what is that name?—Fog—Perspiring Fog—ver good———ver good indeed. And the Count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of information.
"Wonderful man, Count Smorltork," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
"Sound philosopher," said Mr. Pott.
"Clear-headed, strong-minded person," added Mr. Snodgrass.
A chorus of by-standers took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise, shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried "Very!"
