“Oh, I am sure neither the old man nor his son looked much like a duke, or so much as an officer either,” exclaimed Mrs. Jarvis, who thought the latter rank the dignity in degree next below nobility.

“There sat, in the parliament of this realm, when I was a member, a General Denbigh,” said Mr. Benfield, with his usual deliberation; “he was always on the same side with Lord Gosford and myself.  He and his friend, Sir Peter Howell, who was the admiral that took the French squadron, in the glorious administration of Billy Pitt, and afterwards took an island with this same General Denbigh:  aye, the old admiral was a hearty blade; a good deal such a looking man as my Hector would make.”

Hector was Mr. Benfield’s bull dog.

“Mercy,” whispered John to Clara, “that’s your grandfather that is to be uncle Benfield is speaking of.”

Clara smiled, as she ventured to say, “Sir Peter was Mrs. Ives’s father, sir.”

“Indeed!” said the old gentleman, with a look of surprise, “I never knew that before; I cannot say they resemble each other much.”

“Pray, uncle, does Frank look much like the family?” asked John, with an air of unconquerable gravity.

“But, sir,” interrupted Emily, “were General Denbigh and Admiral Ho well related?”

“Not that I ever knew, Emmy dear.  Sir Frederick Denbigh did not look much like the admiral; he rather resembled (gathering himself up into an air of formality, and bowing stiffly to Colonel Egerton) this gentleman, here.”

“I have not the honor of the connexion,” observed the colonel, withdrawing behind the chair of Jane.

Mrs. Wilson changed the conversation to one more general; but the little that had fallen from Mr. Benfield gave reason for believing a connexion, in some way of which they were ignorant, existed between the descendants of the two veterans, and which explained the interest they felt in each other.

During dinner, Colonel Egerton placed himself next to Emily, and Miss Jarvis took, the chair on the other side.  He spoke of the gay world, of watering-places, novels, plays, and still finding his companion reserved, and either unwilling or unable to talk freely, he tried his favorite sentiment.  He had read poetry, and a remark of his lighted up a spark of intelligence in the beautiful face of his companion that for a moment deceived him; but as he went on to point out his favorite beauties, it gave place to a settled composure, which at last led him to imagine the casket contained no gem equal to the promise of its brilliant exterior.  After resting from one of his most labored displays of feeling and imagery, he accidentally caught the eyes of Jane fastened on him with an expression of no dubious import, and the soldier changed his battery.  In Jane he found a more willing auditor; poetry was the food she lived on, and in works of the imagination she found her greatest delight.  An animated discussion of the merits of their favorite authors now took place; to renew which, the colonel early left the dining-room for the society of the ladies; John, who disliked drinking excessively, being happy of an excuse to attend him.