“Who will pay my debts?” repeated the son.

“Apology, indeed!  Who is he, that you, a son of Alderman—­of—­Mr. Jarvis, of the deanery, B——­, North ’amptonshire, should beg his pardon—­a vagrant that nobody knows!”

“Who will pay my debts?” again inquired the captain drumming with his foot.”

“Harry,” exclaimed the mother, “do you love money better than honor—­a soldier’s honor?”

“No, mother; but I like good eating and drinking.  Think mother; it’s a cool five hundred, and that’s a famous deal of money.”

“Harry,” cried the mother, in a rage, “you are not fit for a soldier.  I wish I were in your place.”

“I wish, with all my heart, you had been for an hour this morning,” thought the son.  After arguing for some time longer, they compromised, by agreeing to leave it to the decision of Colonel Egerton, who, the mother did not doubt, would applaud her maintaining; the Jarvis dignity, a family in which he took quite as much interest as he felt for his own—­so he had told her fifty times.  The captain, however, determined within himself to touch the five hundred, let the colonel decide as he might; but the colonel’s decision obviated all difficulties.  The question was put to him by Mrs. Jarvis, on his return from the airing, with no doubt the decision would be favorable to her opinion.  The colonel and herself, she said, never disagreed; and the lady was right—­for wherever his interest made it desirable to convert Mrs. Jarvis to his side of the question, Egerton had a manner of doing it that never failed to succeed.

“Why, madam,” said he, with one of his most agreeable smiles, “apologies are different things, at different times.  You are certainly right in your sentiments, as relates to a proper spirit in a soldier; but no one can doubt the spirit of the captain, after the stand he took in this affair; if Mr. Denbigh would not meet him (a very extraordinary measure, in deed, I confess), what can your son do more?  He cannot make a man fight against his will, you know.”

“True, true,” cried the matron, impatiently, “I do not want him to fight; heaven forbid! but why should he, the challenger, beg pardon?  I am sure, to have the thing regular, Mr. Denbigh is the one to ask forgiveness.”

The colonel felt at a little loss how to reply, when Jarvis, in whom the thoughts of the five hundred pounds had worked a revolution, exclaimed—­

“You know, mother, I accused him—­that is, I suspected him of dancing with Miss Moseley against my right to her; now you find that it was all a mistake, and so I had better act with dignity, and confess my error.”

“Oh, by all means,” cried the colonel, who saw the danger of an embarrassing rupture between the families, otherwise:  “delicacy to your sex particularly requires that, ma’am, from your son;” and he accidentally dropped a letter as he spoke.

“From Sir Edgar, colonel?” asked Mrs. Jarvis, as he stooped to pick it up.