You
talk of that lady who paid me a visit here once, and whom I treated
becomingly, I swear. I never do otherwise. She was a handsome woman; and
what was she? The housekeeper of Captain Beauchamp's uncle. Hear me, if
you please! To go with the world, I have as good a right to suppose the
worst of an attractive lady in that situation as you regarding my ward:
better warrant for scandalizing, I think; to go with the world. But
now--'

Cecil checked him, ejaculating, 'Thank you, Dr. Shrapnel; I thank you
most cordially,' with a shining smile. 'Stay, sir! no more. I take my
leave of you. Not another word. No "buts"! I recognize that conciliation
is out of the question: you are the natural protector of poachers, and
you will not grant me an interview with the young lady you call your
ward, that I may represent to her, as a person we presume to have a
chance of moving you, how easily--I am determined you shall hear me,
Dr. Shrapnel!--how easily the position of Captain Beauchamp may become
precarious with his uncle Mr. Romfrey. And let me add--"but" and "but"
me till Doomsday, sir!--if you were--I do hear you, sir, and you shall
hear me--if you were a younger man, I say, I would hold you answerable
to me for your scandalous and disgraceful insinuations.'

Dr. Shrapnel was adroitly fenced and over-shouted. He shrugged,
stuttered, swayed, wagged a bulrush-head, flapped his elbows, puffed
like a swimmer in the breakers, tried many times to expostulate,
and finding the effort useless, for his adversary was copious and
commanding, relapsed, eyeing him as an object far removed.

Cecil rounded one of his perplexingly empty sentences and turned on his
heel.

'War, then!' he said.

'As you like,' retorted the doctor.

'Oh! Very good. Good evening.' Cecil slightly lifted his hat, with the
short projection of the head of the stately peacock in its walk,
and passed out of the garden. Lord Palmet, deeply disappointed and
mystified, went after him, leaving Dr. Shrapnel to shorten his garden
walk with enormous long strides.

'I'm afraid you didn't manage the old boy,' Palmet complained. 'They're
people who have tea in their gardens; we might have sat down with them
and talked, the best friends in the world, and come again to-morrow
might have called her Jenny in a week. She didn't show her pretty nose
at any of the windows.'

His companion pooh-poohed and said: 'Foh! I'm afraid I permitted myself
to lose my self-command for a mome