Doodles soon went. He could not sit long with the simple gratification of a cigar, without gin-and-water or other comfort of that kind, even though the eloquence of Count Pateroff might be excited in his favour. He was a man, indeed, who did not love to sit still, even with the comfort of gin-and-water. An active little man was Captain Boodle, always doing something or anxious to do something in his own line of business. Small speculations in money, so concocted as to leave the risk against him smaller than the chance on his side, constituted Captain Boodle’s trade; and in that trade he was indefatigable, ingenious, and, to a certain extent, successful. The worst of the trade was this: that though he worked at it above twelve hours a day, to the exclusion of all other interests in life, he could only make out of it an income which would have been considered a beggarly failure at any other profession. When he netted a pound a day he considered himself to have done very well; but he could not do that every day in the week. To do it often required unremitting exertion. And then, in spite of all his care, misfortunes would come. “A cursed garron, of whom nobody had ever heard the name! If a man mayn’t take a liberty with such a brute as that, when is he to take a liberty?” So had he expressed himself plaintively, endeavouring to excuse himself, when on some occasion a race had been won by some outside horse which Captain Boodle had omitted to make safe in his betting-book. He was regarded by his intimate friends as a very successful man; but I think myself that his life was a mistake. To live with one’s hands ever daubed with chalk from a billiard-table, to be always spying into stables and rubbing against grooms, to put up with the narrow lodgings which needy men encounter at race meetings, to be day after day on the rails running after platers and steeplechasers, to be conscious on all occasions of the expediency of selling your beast when you are hunting, to be counting up little odds at all your spare moments;—these things do not, I think, make a satisfactory life for a young man. And for a man that is not young, they are the very devil! Better have no digestion when you are forty than find yourself living such a life as that! Captain Boodle would, I think, have been happier had he contrived to get himself employed as a tax-gatherer or an attorney’s clerk.
On this occasion Doodles soon went, as had been expected, and Harry found himself smoking with the two foreigners. Pateroff was no longer eloquent, but sat with his cigar in his mouth as silent as Colonel Schmoff himself. It was evidently expected of Harry that he should go.
“Count,” he said at last, “you got my note?” There were seven or eight persons sitting in the room besides the party of three to which Harry belonged.
“Your note, Mr. Clavering! which note? Oh, yes; I should not have had the pleasure of seeing you here today but for that.”
“Can you give me five minutes in private?”
“What! now! here! this evening! after dinner? Another time I will talk with you by the hour together.”
“I fear I must trouble you now. I need not remind you that I could not keep you yesterday morning; you were so much hurried.”
“And now I am having my little moment of comfort! These special business conversations after dinner are so bad for the digestion!”
“If I could have caught you before dinner, Count Pateroff, I would have done so.”
“If it must be, it must. Schmoff, will you wait for me ten minutes? I will not be more than ten minutes.” And the count as he made this promise looked at his watch. “Waiter,” he said, speaking in a sharp tone which Harry had not heard before, “show this gentleman and me into a private room.” Harry got up and led the way out, not forgetting to assure himself that he cared nothing for the sharpness of the count’s voice.
“Now, Mr. Clavering, what is it?” said the count, looking full into Harry’s eye.
“I will tell you in two words.”
“In one if you can.”
“I came with a message to you from Lady Ongar.”
“Why are you a messenger from Lady Ongar?”
“I have known her long and she is connected with my family.”
“Why does she not send her messages by Sir Hugh—her brother-in-law?”
“It is hardly for you to ask that!”
“Yes; it is for me to ask that. I have known Lady Ongar well, and have treated her with kindness. I do not want to have messages by anybody. But go on. If you are a messenger, give your message.”
“Lady Ongar bids me tell you that she cannot see you.”
“But she must see me. She shall see me!”
“I am to explain to you that she declines to do so. Surely, Count Pateroff, you must understand—”
“Ah, bah; I understand everything;—in such matters as these, better, perhaps, than you, Mr. Clavering. You have given your message. Now, as you are a messenger, will you give mine?”
“That will depend altogether on its nature.”
“Sir, I never send uncivil words to a woman, though sometimes I may be tempted to speak them to a man; when, for instance, a man interferes with me; do you understand? My message is this:—tell her ladyship, with my compliments, that it will be better for her to see me—better
