indle-shanked, mealy-mouthed popinjay like him!"

"Him?" says I, questioningly.

"Aye--him!" snaps Jack, with another oath.

"Make it a hundred and fifty, Bentley?" says I softly.

"Agreed!" says Bentley.

"To think," says Jack again, "of a prancing puppy-dog, a walking
clothes-pole like him--and she loves him, sir!"

"She?" repeated Bentley, and chuckled.

"Aye, she, sir," roared Jack; "to think after the way we have brought
her up, after all our care of her, that she should go and fall in love
with a dancing, dandified nincompoop, all powder and patches. Why damme!
the wench is run stark, staring mad. Egad! a nice situation for a loving
and affectionate father to be placed in!"

"Father?" says I.

"Aye, father, sir," roars Jack again, "though I would to heaven Penelope
had some one else to father her--the jade!"

"What!" says I, unheeding Bentley's leering triumph (Bentley never wins
but he must needs show it) "what, is Penelope--fallen in love with
somebody?"

"Why don't I tell you?" cries Jack, "don't I tell you that I found a set
of verses--actually poetry, that the jackanapes had written her?"

"Did you tax her with the discovery?" says I.

"To be sure I did, and the minx owned her love for him--vowed she'd
never wed another, and positively told me she liked the poetry stuff.
After that, as you may suppose, I came away; had I stayed I won't answer
for it but that I might have boxed the jade's ears. Oh, egad, a pretty
business!"

"And I thought we had settled she was to marry Bentley's nephew Horace
some day," says I, as we turned into the High Street.

"It seems she has determined otherwise--the vixen; and a likely lad,
too, as I remember him," says Jack, shaking his head.

"Where is he now, Bentley?" says I.

"Humph!" says Bentley, thoughtfully. "His last letter was writ from
Venice."

"Aye, that's it," says Jack, "while he's gadding abroad, this mincing,
languid ass, this--"

"What did you say was the fellow's name?" says I.

"Tawnish!" says Jack, making a wry face over it, "the Honourable Horatio
Tawnish. Come, Dick and Bentley, what shall we do in the matter?"

"Speaking for myself," I returned, "it's devilish hard to determine."

"And speaking for us all," says Bentley, "suppose we thrash out the
question over a bottle of wine?" and swinging into the yard of "The
Chequers" hard by, he dismounted and led the way to the sanded parlour.

We found it empty (as it usually is at this ho