‘A plover’s topping’s better,’ said Williamson.

‘And work your gold and silver thread,’ pursued Benson, ’up to your wings, and when your head’s made, you fasten all.’

‘But you never showed how your head’s made,’ interrupted Williamson.

’The gentleman knows how a head’s made; any man can make a head, I suppose; so, sir, you fasten all.’

‘You’ll never get your head fast on that way, while the world stands,’ cried Williamson.

’Fast enough for all purposes; I’ll bet you a rump and dozen, captain; and then, sir,—­count, you divide your wings with a needle.’

‘A pin’s point will do,’ said Williamson.

The count, to reconcile matters, produced from an Indian cabinet, which he had opened for the lady’s inspection, a little basket containing a variety of artificial flies of curious construction, which, as he spread them on the table, made Williamson and Benson’s eyes almost sparkle with delight.  There was the Dun-fly, for the month of March; and the stone-fly, much in vogue for April; and the Ruddy-fly, of red wool, black silk, and red capon’s feathers.

Lord Colambre, whose head was in the burial-place of the Nugents, wished them all at the bottom of the sea.

‘And the green-fly, and the Moorish-fly!’ cried Benson, snatching them up with transport; ’and, chief, the sad-yellow-fly, in which the fish delight in June; the sad-yellow-fly, made with the buzzard’s wings, bound with black braked hemp, and the Shell-fly for the middle of July, made of greenish wool, wrapped about with the herle of a peacock’s tail, famous for creating excellent sport.’  All these and more were spread upon the table before the sportsmen’s wondering eyes.

‘Capital flies! capital, faith!’ cried Williamson.

‘Treasures, faith, real treasures, by G—!’ cried Benson.

’Eh! ‘pon honour! re’lly now,’ were the first words which Heathcock had uttered since his battle with the goat.

‘My dear Heathcock, are you alive still?’ said Lady Dashfort; ’I had really forgotten your existence.’

So had Count O’Halloran, but he did not say so.

‘Your ladyship has the advantage of me there,’ said Heathcock, stretching himself; ’I wish I could forget my existence, for, in my mind, existence is a horrible bore.’

‘I thought you was a sportsman,’ said Williamson.

‘Well, sir?’

‘And a fisherman?’

‘Well, sir?’

‘Why, look you there, sir,’ pointing to the flies, ’and tell a body life’s a bore.’

‘One can’t always fish, or shoot, I apprehend, sir,’ said Heathcock.

‘Not always—­but sometimes,’ said Williamson, laughing; ’for I suspect shrewdly you’ve forgot some of your sporting in Bond Street.’

’Eh! ‘pon honour! re’lly now!’ said the colonel, retreating again to his safe entrenchment of affectation, from which he never could venture without imminent danger.