It also occurred to Rivers that there was none against applejack.  “Quite right,” he said.  “You make me think of that scamp, Lamb.  McGregor tells me that he is very ill.”

“A pity he wouldn’t die,” remarked the young host, who had indiscreetly taken two full tumblers of old hard cider before Rivers had noticed his unaccustomed use of this rather potent drink.

“You should not desire the death of any man, John,” said Grace, “least of all the death of a sinner like Lamb.”

“Really,” said John with the dignity of just a trifle too much cider, “my phrase did not admit of your construction.”

“No,” laughed Rivers, seeing it well to intervene, “and yet to say it is a pity may be a kindly wish and leaves it open to charitable interpretation.”

“He is quite unprepared to die,” insisted Grace, with the clerical intonation which Rivers disliked.

“How do you know that?” asked Rivers.

“I know,” said John confidently.  “He told me he was a born thief and loved to lie.  He was pretty drunk at the time.”

“That is too nearly true to be pleasant,” remarked Rivers, “’in vino veritas.’  The man is a very strange nature.  I think he never forgives a benefit.  I sometimes think he has no sense of the difference between right and wrong—­an unmoral nature, beyond your preaching or mine, Grace, even if he ever gave us a chance.”

“I think he is a cruel beast,” said John.  “I saw him once—­”

Rivers interrupted him saying, as he rose, “Suppose we smoke.”

With unconscious imitation of the courteous Squire he represented, John said, “We will smoke in the library if you have had enough wine.”

Rivers said, “Certainly, Squire,” not altogether amused as John, a little embarrassed, said quickly, “I should have said cider.”

“Of course, we have had no wine, quite a natural mistake,” remarked Grace, which the representative squire felt to be a very disagreeable comment.

“You will find cigars and pipes on the table,” said the rector, “and I will join you in a moment.”  So saying he detained John by a hand on his arm and led him aside as they crossed the hall.

“You are feeling that old hard cider, my boy.  You had better go to bed.  I should have warned you.”

“Yes, sir—­I—­did not—­I mean—­I—­”

“C’est une diablesse—­a little devil.  There are others, and worse ones, John.  Good-night.”

On the stairs the young fellow felt a deepening sense of humiliation and surprise as he became aware of the value of the banister-rail.

Rivers went into the library blaming his want of care, and a little sorry for the lad’s evident distress.  “What, not smoking, Grace?”

“No, I have given it up.”

“But, why?”

“Well, I can’t smoke cheap strong tobacco, and I can’t afford better stuff.”

“Then, be at ease, my friend.  The Squire has sent me a large supply.  I am to divide with you,” which was as near to a fib as the young clergyman ever got in his blameless life.