"No?" says Mr. Tawnish, with a tinge of surprise in his gentle voice,
"why then, I'm not particular myself, Sir John--there are a host of
other matters--horses and dogs, for instance."

"The devil take your horses and dogs, sir!" cries Jack.

"Willingly," says Mr. Tawnish, "to speak the truth I grow something
tired of them myself; there seems very little else talked of
hereabouts."

"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, beginning to lose his temper despite my
admonitory frown, "the matter on which I would speak to you is my
daughter, sir, the Lady Penelope."

"What--here, Sir John?" cries Mr. Tawnish, in a horrified tone, "in the
tap of an inn, with a--pink my immortal soul!--a sanded floor, and the
very air nauseous with the reek of filthy tobacco? No, no, Sir John,
indeed, keep to horses and dogs, I beg of you; 'tis a subject more in
harmony with such surroundings."

"Now look you, sir," says Jack, blowing out his cheeks, "'tis a good
enough place for what I have to say to you, sanded floor or no, and I
promise it shall not detain you long."

Hereupon Jack rose with a snort of anger, and began pacing to and fro,
striking himself most severely several times, while Mr. Tawnish, drawing
out a very delicate, enamelled snuff-box, helped himself to a leisurely
pinch, and regarded him with a mild astonishment.

"Sir," says Jack, turning suddenly with a click of spurred heels, "you
are in the habit of writing poetry?"

The patch at the corner of the Honourable Horatio's mouth quivered for
a moment. "Really, my dear Sir John--" he began.

"You sent a set of verses to my daughter, sir," Jack broke in, "well,
damme, sir, I don't like poetry!"

"I do not doubt it for a moment, sir," says Mr. Tawnish, "but these were
written, if you remember, to--the lady."

"Exactly," cries Jack, "and you will understand, sir, that I forbid
poetry, once and for all--curse me, sir, I'll not permit it!"

"This new French sauce that London is gone mad over is a thought too
strong of garlic, to my thinking," says Mr. Tawnish, flicking a stray
grain of snuff from his cravat. "You will, I think, agree with me, Sir
John, that to a delicate palate--"

"The devil anoint your French sauce, sir," cries Jack, in a fury, "who's
talking of French sauces?"

"My very dear Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, with an engaging smile, "when
one topic becomes at all--strained, shall we say?--I esteem it the wiser
course to change the subject, having frequently proved