I be permitted to guess your Christian name, sir? Is it Martin,
perchance?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'and my surname is Tupper.' He then got up and laid
his hand on the _raconteur's_ shoulder, and said, 'Don't be a fool,
De Castro. When a man looks at another as the author of the
_Proverbial Philosophy_ is looking at you, he knows that he can use
his fists as well as his pen.'

'He gave me the lie. Didn't you hear?'

'I did, and I thought the gift as entirely gratuitous, _mon cher_,
as giving a scuttleful of coals to Newcastle.'

The anecdote-monger stood silent, quelled by this man's voice.

Then turning to me, the man of the musical voice said, 'I suppose you
know something about my friend Lady Sinfi?'

'I do,' I said, 'and I am Cyril Aylwin's kinsman, whom you call his
cousin, so perhaps, as every word your friend has said about Sinfi
Lovell and me is false, you will allow me to call him a liar.'

A look of the greatest glee at the discomfiture of his companion
overspread his face.

'Certainly,' he said with a loud laugh. 'You may call him that, you
may even qualify the noun you have used with an adjective if the
author of the _Proverbial Philosophy_ can think of one that is
properly descriptive and yet not too unparliamentary. So you are
Cyril Aylwin's kinsman. I have heard him,' he said, with a smile that
he tried in vain to suppress, 'I have heard Cyril expatiate on the
various branches of the Aylwin family.'

'I belong to the proud Aylwins,' I said.

The twinkle in his eye made me adore him as he said--'The proud
Aylwins. A man who, in a world like this, is proud and knows it, and
is proud of confessing his pride, always interests me, but I will not
ask you what makes the proud Aylwins proud, sir.'

'I will tell you what makes me proud,' I said: 'my great-grandmother
was a full-blooded Gypsy, and I am proud of the descent.'

He came forward and held out his hand and said, 'It is long since I
met a man who interested me'--he gave a sigh--'very long; and I hope
that you and I may become friends.'

I grasped his hand and shook it warmly.

The anecdote-monger began talking at once about Sinfi, Wilderspin,
and Cyril Aylwin, speaking of them in the most genial and
affectionate terms. In a few minutes, without withdrawing a word he
had said about either of them, he had entirely changed the spirit of
every word. At first I tried to resist his sophistry, but it was not
to be resisted. I ended by apologising to