“And pray, my good son,” said Lord Byerdale to him, “as your intimacy with washerwomen is doubtless as great as your intimacy with embroiderers and sempstresses, pray tell me how these gilded napkins are to be washed?”

“Washed, my lord!” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke in a tone of horror.  “Do you ever have your napkins washed?  I did not know there was a statesman in Europe whose fingers were so clean as to leave his napkin in such a state that the stains could ever be taken out, after he had once used it.”

“I am afraid, my dear boy,” replied Lord Byerdale, “that, if you had not—­as many men of sharp wit do—­confounded a figure with a reality, for the purpose of playing with both, and if there were in truth such a thing as a moral napkin, what you say would be very true.  But as far as I can judge, my dear Sherbrooke, yours would not bear washing any better than mine.”

“It would be very presumptuous of me if it did, my dear father,” replied Lord Sherbrooke, “and would argue that precept and example had done nothing for me.  Come, Wilton,” he added, “come in to my help, for here are father and son flinging so hard at each other, that I shall get my teeth dashed down my throat before I’ve done.  Now tell me, did you ever see such a napkin as that in the house of a nobleman, a gentleman, or a man of taste, three states, by the way, seldom united in the same person?”

“Oh yes,” replied Wilton, “often; and, to tell the truth, I think them in much better taste than if they were all covered with gold.”

“Surely not for the fingers of a statesman?” said Lord Sherbrooke.  “However, I abominate them; and I will instantly sit down and write to a good friend of mine in France, to smuggle me over a few dozens as a present to my respectable parent.”

“A present which he will have to pay for,” replied the Earl, somewhat bitterly.  “My dear Sherbrooke, your presents to other people cost your father so much one way, that I beg you will make none to him, and get him into the scrape the other way also.”

“Do not be alarmed, my dear and most amiable parent,” replied Lord Sherbrooke:  “the sweet discussion which we had some time ago, in regard to debts and expenses, has had its effect:  though it is a very stupid plan of a son ever to let his father see that what he says has any effect upon him at all; but I intend to contract my expenses.”

“Intentions are very excellent things, my dear Sherbrooke,” replied his father.  “But I am afraid we generally treat them as gardeners do celery,—­cut them down as soon as they sprout above ground.”

“I have let mine grow, my lord, already,” replied Sherbrooke.  “I last night gave an order for selling five of my horses, and now keep only two.”

“And how many mistresses, Sherbrooke?” demanded his father.

“None, my lord,” replied Sherbrooke.

Not a change came over Lord Byerdale’s countenance; but ringing the bell which stood before him on the table, he said to the servant, “Bring me the book marked ‘Ephemeris’ from my dressing-room, with a pen and ink.—­We will put that down,” continued he; and when the servant brought the book he wrote for a moment, reading aloud as he did so, “Great annular eclipse of the sun—­slight shock of an earthquake felt in Cardigan—­Sherbrooke talks of contracting his expenses.”