He could reflect also on the likelihood that other offended men of his uncle’s age and position would have sulked or stormed, threatening the Parthian shot of the vindictive testator.  If there was godlessness in turning to politics for a weapon to strike a domestic blow, manfulness in some degree signalized it.  Beauchamp could fancy his uncle crying out, Who set the example? and he was not at that instant inclined to dwell on the occult virtues of the example he had set.  To be honest, this elevation of 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.