ottled cheek. "Cut away at old Frank,
Farintosh,--a fellow who has been attached to you since before you could
speak. It's not when a fellow's down and cut up, and riled--naturally
riled--as you are--I know you are, Marquis; it's not then that I'm going
to be angry with you. Pitch into old Frank Henchman--hit away, my young
one." And Frank put himself into an attitude as of one prepared to
receive a pugilistic assault. He bared his breast, as it were, and
showed his scars, and said, "Strike!" Frank Henchman was a florid toady.
My uncle, Major Pendennis, has often laughed with me about the fellow's
pompous flatteries and ebullient fidelity.

"You have read this confounded paragraph?" says the Marquis. "We have
read it: and were deucedly cut up, too," says Henchman, "for your sake,
my dear boy."

"I remembered what you said, last year, Marquis," cries Todhunter
(not unadroitly). "You, yourself, pointed out, in this very room, I
recollect, at this very table--that night Coralie and the little
Spanish dancer and her mother supped here, and there was a talk about
Highgate--you, yourself, pointed out what was likely to happen. I
doubted it; for I have dined at the Newcomes', and seen Highgate and her
together in society often. But though you are a younger bird, you have
better eyes than I have--and you saw the thing at once--at once, don't
you remember I and Coralie said how glad she was, because Sir Barnes
ill-treated her friend. What was the name of Coralie's friend, Hench?"

"How should I know her confounded name?" Henchman briskly answers.
"What do I care for Sir Barnes Newcome and his private affairs? He is
no friend of mine. I never said he was a friend of mine. I never said
I liked him. Out of respect for the Chief here, I held my tongue about
him, and shall hold my tongue. Have some of this pate, Chief! No? Poor
old boy! I know you haven't got an appetite. I know this news cuts you
up. I say nothing, and make no pretence of condolence; though I feel
for you--and you know you can count on old Frank Henchman--don't you,
Malcolm?" And again he turns away to conceal his gallant sensibility and
generous emotion.

"What does it matter to me?" bursts out the Marquis, garnishing his
conversation with the usual expletives which adorned his eloquence
when he was strongly moved. "What do I care for Barnes Newcome, and his
confounded affairs and family? I never want to see him again, but in the
light of a banker, when I go to