“Eleven years ago,” said Sir Edward to himself, as his brougham slowly rolled him toward the Committee Room, “just eleven years ago my natural son disappeared mysteriously. I have no doubt in the world but that this little bootblack is he. His mother died in Italy. He resembles his mother very much. Perhaps I ought to provide for him. Shall I disclose myself? No! no! Better he should taste the sweets of Labor. Penury ennobles the mind and kindles the Love of the Beautiful. I will act to him, not like a Father, not like a Guardian, not like a Friend—but like a Philosopher!” With these words, Sir Edward entered the Committee Room. His Secretary approached him. “Sir Edward, there are fears of a division in the House, and the Prime Minister has sent for you.”
“I will be there,” said Sir Edward, as he placed his hand on his chest and uttered a hollow cough!
No one who heard the Baronet that night, in his sarcastic and withering speech on the Drainage and Sewerage Bill, would have recognized the Lover of the Ideal and the Philosopher of the Beautiful. No one who listened to his eloquence would have dreamed of the Spartan resolution this iron man had taken in regard to the Lost Boy—his own beloved Lionel. None!
“A fine speech from Sir Edward to-night,” said Lord Billingsgate, as, arm and arm with the Premier, he entered his carriage.
“Yes! but how dreadfully he coughs!”
“Exactly. Dr. Bolus says his lungs are entirely gone; he breathes entirely by an effort of will, and altogether independent of pulmonary assistance.”
“How strange!” And the carriage rolled away.
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