His attention to the wine was unremittent;
he kept his brother's glass full, nor was Bridget allowed to shirk
her convivial duty. At dessert appeared a third bottle; by this
time, Piers was drinking without heed to results; jovially,
mechanically, glass after glass, talking, too, in a strain of
nebulous imaginativeness. There could be little doubt, he hinted,
that one of his Parliamentary friends (John Jacks had been
insensibly multiplied) would give him a friendly lift. A
secretaryship was sure to come pretty quickly, and then, who knew
what opening might present itself! He wouldn't mind a consulship,
for a year or two, at some agreeable place. But eventually--who
could doubt it?--he would enter the House. "Why, of course!" cried
Alexander; the outline of his career was plain beyond discussion.
And let him go in strong for Home Rule. That would be the great
question for the next few years, until it was triumphantly settled.
Private information--from a source only to be hinted at--assured
him that Mr. Gladstone (after the recent defeat) was already hard at
work preparing another Bill. Come now, they must drink Home Rule--
"Justice to Ireland, and the world-supremacy of the British Empire!"
--that was his toast. They interrupted their sipping of green
Chartreuse to drink it in brimming glasses of claret.
"We'll drive you to Queen's Gate!" said Alexander, when Piers began
to look at his watch.
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