“As villainous as ever,” says the lawyer; “my opinion of Mr. Roundjacket, sir, is, that he is a villain!”

Miss Lavinia colors to the temples—­the Squire nearly bursts with pent-up laughter.

“What has he done?  A villain did you say?” he asks.

“Yes, sir!—­a wretch!”

“Possible?”

“Yes—­it is possible:  and if you knew as much of human nature as I do, you would never feel surprised at any man’s turning out a villain and a wretch!  I am a wretch myself, sir!”

And scowling at the Squire, Mr. Rushton goes on with his breakfast.

The Squire utters various inarticulate sounds which seem to indicate the stoppage of a bone in his throat.  Nevertheless he soon recovers his powers of speech, and says: 

“But how is Roundjacket so bad?”

“He has taken to writing poetry.”

“That’s an old charge.”

“No, sir—­he has grown far worse, lately.  He is writing an epic—­an epic!”

And the lawyer looked inexpressibly disgusted.

“I should think a gentleman might compose an epic poem without rendering himself amenable to insult, sir,” says Miss Lavinia, with freezing hauteur.

“You are mistaken,” says Mr. Rushton; “your sex, madam, know nothing of business.  The lawyer who takes to writing poetry, must necessarily neglect the legal business entrusted to him, and for which he is paid.  Now, madam,” added Mr. Rushton, triumphantly, “I defy you, or any other man—­individual, I mean—­to say that the person who takes money without giving an equivalent, is not a villain and a wretch!”

Miss Lavinia colors, and mutters inarticulately.

“Such a man,” said Mr. Rushton, with dreadful solemnity, “is already on his way to the gallows; he has already commenced the downward course of crime.  From this, he proceeds to breach of promise—­I mean any promise, not of marriage only, madam—­then to forging, then to larceny, and finally to burglary and murder.  There, madam, that is what I mean—­I defy you to deny the truth of what I say!”

The Squire could endure the pressure upon his larynx no longer, and exploded like a bomb-shell; or if not in so terrible a manner, at least nearly as loudly.

No one can tell what the awful sentiments of Mr. Rushton, on the subject of Roundjacket would have led to, had not the Squire come to the rescue.

“Well, well,” he said, still laughing, “it is plain, my dear Rushton, that for once in your life you are not well posted up on the ’facts of your case,’ and you are getting worse and worse in your argument, to say nothing of the prejudice of the jury.  Come, let us dismiss the subject.  I don’t think Mr. Roundjacket, however, will turn out a murderer, which would be a horrible blow to me, as I knew his worthy father well, and often visited him at ‘Flowery Lane,’ over yonder.  But the discussion is unprofitable—­hey! what do you think, Verty, and you, Miss Redbud?”