forcing a smile. 'It is but manner.'

'It is a demd uncomfortable, private-madhouse-sort of a manner,' said Mr
Mantalini, picking up his cane.

Ralph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr Mantalini
had derived his information.

'From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,' replied
Mantalini. 'Demnition pleasant, and a tip-top sawyer.'

'And what said he?' asked Ralph, knitting his brows.

'That it happened this way--that your nephew met him at a coffeehouse,
fell upon him with the most demneble ferocity, followed him to his cab,
swore he would ride home with him, if he rode upon the horse's back or
hooked himself on to the horse's tail; smashed his countenance, which
is a demd fine countenance in its natural state; frightened the horse,
pitched out Sir Mulberry and himself, and--'

'And was killed?' interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. 'Was he? Is he
dead?'

Mantalini shook his head.

'Ugh,' said Ralph, turning away. 'Then he has done nothing. Stay,'
he added, looking round again. 'He broke a leg or an arm, or put his
shoulder out, or fractured his collar-bone, or ground a rib or two? His
neck was saved for the halter, but he got some painful and slow-healing
injury for his trouble? Did he? You must have heard that, at least.'

'No,' rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. 'Unless he was dashed
into such little pieces that they blew away, he wasn't hurt, for he went
off as quiet and comfortable as--as--as demnition,' said Mr Mantalini,
rather at a loss for a simile.

'And what,' said Ralph, hesitating a little, 'what was the cause of
quarrel?'

'You are the demdest, knowing hand,' replied Mr Mantalini, in an
admiring tone, 'the cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox--oh
dem!--to pretend now not to know that it was the little bright-eyed
niece--the softest, sweetest, prettiest--'

'Alfred!' interposed Madame Mantalini.

'She is always right,' rejoined Mr Mantalini soothingly, 'and when she
says it is time to go, it is time, and go she shall; and when she walks
along the streets with her own tulip, the women shall say, with envy,
she has got a demd fine husband; and the men shall say with rapture,
he has got a demd fine wife; and they shall both be right and neither
wrong, upon my life and soul--oh demmit!'

With which remarks, and many more, no less intellectual and to the
purpose, Mr Mantalini kissed the fingers of his gloves to Ralph
Nickleby, and drawing hi