The axiom Murray Bradshaw had quoted--he did not remember from what,--"sounded like Coleridge"-- was staring him in the face from that very page.

When he remembered how he had pleased himself with that compliment the other day, he blushed like a school-girl; and then, thinking out the whole trick,--to hunt up his forgotten book, pick out a phrase or two from it, and play on his weakness with it, to win his good opinion,--for what purpose he did not know, but doubtless to use him in some way,--he grinned with a contempt about equally divided between himself and the young schemer.
"Ah ha!" he muttered scornfully.

"Sounds like Coleridge, hey?
Niccolo Macchiavelli Bradshaw!" From this day forward he looked on all the young lawyer's doings with even more suspicion than before.

Yet he would not forego his company and conversation; for he was very agreeable and amusing to study; and this trick he had played him was, after all, only a diplomatist's way of flattering his brother plenipotentiary.

Who could say?
Some time or other he might cajole England or France or Russia into a treaty with just such a trick.