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that at all!” Mr. Disraeli declared. “Generally, people change their plans to avoid dear Lord John’s receptions.”
    He twittered.
    “The Earl is welcoming Lord Lyons home from Washington,” Mr. Adams said. “For consultations.”
    “Ah, Lyons. Our illustrious ambassador to your glorious Union! But, Mr. Adams, isn’t ‘consultations’ the diplomatic term for ‘utterly befuddled’? Really, you needn’t raise thematter with Earl Russell. It will only confuse dear Lord John. I shall see to it.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Mr. Adams said. “I shall rely upon your discretion.”
    Mr. Disraeli touched his fingertips to his beard. “Oh, dear, dear.”
    We sat quietly for a brace of moments. Look you. I got a lesson that night in how a man’s silence may draw out more than his questions. Twas clear that Mr. Disraeli expected Mr. Adams to say something further, to want additional assurances, but our Minister had spoken carefully at the outset, got what he wanted, and now he sat there like a Hindoo fakir, apparently willing to let the world proceed.
    At last, Mr. Disraeli, who had a considerable appetite for his own speech, could bear it no longer. He cleared his throat and announced, “Naturally, Mr. Adams, you must be curious regarding the means at my disposal to allay your concerns.”
    “Not in the least,” Mr. Adams said. “I have complete trust in you, sir.”
    But Mr. Disraeli was not to be dissuaded. It come out later that he was a novel writer, and those sorts always tell more than they should.
    “I seem to recall,” Mr. Disraeli said, “the slightest breath of scandal regarding young Pomeroy’s sister. An event that occurred just at the beginning of the season, if my . . . acquaintance . . . may be trusted.” Our host leaned forward from the basket of his chair and his collar swelled around his neck like a hood. “I do despise gossip, Mr. Adams. Doubtless, young Pomeroy shares my distaste. I’m certain he’ll value my acquaintance’s assurance that no one will overhear the slightest whisper regarding his dear sister’s misfortune. After all, we must demonstrate compassion for the fallen.” More the cobra than ever the fellow seemed. “As the beneficiary of compassion and forebearance himself, Pomeroy will hardly be intent upon embarrassing others.”
    “The letter may already be in the hands of The Times ,” Mr. Adams said, in a voice suddenly gone cold as a north-woodswinter. Twas as if a layer of snow had been whisked away to show the ice beneath.
    Myself, I was dismayed at such untoward dealings. But I am only an old bayonet, and never made a study of diplomacy. Unless you count that bully Agamemnon, and the rest of Mr. Homer’s sneaking Greeks, all of whom were nasty and wanted correction.
    “I assure you,” Mr. Disraeli said, in a voice like naked bone, “that young Pomeroy will redeem any such folly. More successfully, no doubt, than he has retrieved his error with a young seamstress in Lambeth, who has been the recipient of his sustained generosity. I believe he has since contributed a great deal to the prosperity of the medical profession, as well. Old Pomeroy would be mortified to learn of his son’s charitable endeavors. Especially, given that gentleman’s hopes for a peerage before he sheds his mortal coil.” He sighed. “I do find that, these days, the sins of the son are more likely to be visited upon the father. There are certain gambling debts, as well.”
    “You astonish me, sir,” Mr. Adams said in a toneless voice that did not sound astonished in the least. He would never be one for a Welsh choir, I will tell you, for the fellow showed less emotion than a board.
    Mr. Disraeli twittered and gave his beard a generous, satisfied stroke. “I astonish myself, Mr. Adams. But may I offer you a glass of brandy? I find it a great facilitator of a parliamentary demeanor. And I do anticipate a long session tonight.”
    Mr. Adams declined, and our host turned in my