He had been very ill, and would not eat
anything. My mother suggested the wing of a chicken.
'My dear lady,' said he, 'it was only yesterday that my
doctor positively refused my request for the wing of a
butterfly.'
Another time when he was making a call I came to the door
before it was opened. When the footman answered the bell,
'Is Lady Leicester at home?' he asked.
'No, sir,' was the answer.
'That's a good job,' he exclaimed, but with a heartiness that
fairly took Jeames' breath away.
As Sydney's face was perfectly impassive, I never felt quite
sure whether this was for the benefit of myself or of the
astounded footman; or whether it was the genuine expression
of an absent mind. He was a great friend of my mother's, and
of Mr. Ellice's, but his fits of abstraction were notorious.
He himself records the fact. 'I knocked at a door in London,
asked, "Is Mrs. B- at home?" "Yes, sir; pray what name shall
I say?" I looked at the man's face astonished. What name?
what name? aye, that is the question. What is my name? I
had no more idea who I was than if I had never existed. I
did not know whether I was a dissenter or a layman.
