ou will! Hold off from her. Were it true, the cowardice would be not a
whit the smaller. Why, casting a stone like that, were it the size of a
pebble and the weight of a glance, is to toss the whole cowardly world on
an innocent young girl. And why suspect evil? 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