f a political puppet like Cecil Baskelett, and the
starting him, out of the same family which Turbot, the journalist, had
magnified, into Bevisham with such pomp and flourish in opposition to
the serious young champion of popular rights and the Puritan style, was
ludicrously effective. Conscienceless of course. But that was the way of
the Old School.

Beauchamp broke the silence by thanking Cecilia once more for saving
him from the absurd exhibition of the Radical candidate on the Tory
coach-box, and laughing at the grimmish slyness of his uncle Everard's
conspiracy a something in it that was half-smile half-sneer; not exactly
malignant, and by no means innocent; something made up of the simplicity
of a lighted match, and its proximity to powder, yet neither deadly,
in spite of a wicked twinkle, nor at all pretending to be harmless: in
short, a specimen of old English practical humour.

He laboured to express these or corresponding views of it, with
tolerably natural laughter, and Cecilia rallied her spirits at his
pleasant manner of taking his blow.

'I shall compliment the baron when I meet him tonight,' he said. 'What
can we compare him to?'

She suggested the Commander of the Faithful, the Lord Haroun, who
likewise had a turn for buffooneries to serve a purpose, and could
direct them loftily and sovereignty.

'No: Everard Romfrey's a Northerner from the feet up,' said Beauchamp.

Cecilia compliantly offered him a sketch of the Scandinavian Troll: much
nearer the mark, he thought, and exclaimed: 'Baron Troll! I'm afraid,
Cecilia, you have robbed him of the best part of his fun. And you will
owe it entirely to him if you should be represented in Parliament by my
cousin Basketett.'

'Promise me, Nevit, that you will, when you meet Captain Baskelett, not
forget I did you some service, and that I wish, I shall be so glad if
you do not resent certain things.... Very objectionable, we all think.'

He released her from the embarrassing petition: 'Oh! now I know my man,
you may be sure I won't waste a word on him. The fact is, he would not
understand a word, and would require more--and that I don't do. When I
fancied Mr. Austin was the responsible person, I meant to speak to him.'

Cecilia smiled gratefully.

The sweetness of a love-speech would not have been sweeter to her than
this proof of civilized chivalry in Nevil.

They came to the fir-heights overlooking Bevisham. Here the breezy
beginning of a South-wes