He gave a laugh of good-humour.

“Your laughter, Horace, is a capital comment on your wit.”

Willoughby said it with the air of one who has flicked a whip.

“’Tis a genial advertisement of a vacancy,” said De Craye.

“Precisely:  three parts auctioneer to one for the property.”

“Oh, if you have a musical quack, score it a point in his favour, Willoughby, though you don’t swallow his drug.”

“If he means to be musical, let him keep time.”

“Am I late?” said De Craye to the ladies, proving himself an adept in the art of being gracefully vanquished, and so winning tender hearts.

Willoughby had refreshed himself.  At the back of his mind there was a suspicion that his adversary would not have yielded so flatly without an assurance of practically triumphing, secretly getting the better of him; and it filled him with venom for a further bout at the next opportunity:  but as he had been sarcastic and mordant, he had shown Clara what he could do in a way of speaking different from the lamentable cooing stuff, gasps and feeble protestations to which, he knew not how, she reduced him.  Sharing the opinion of his race, that blunt personalities, or the pugilistic form, administered directly on the salient features, are exhibitions of mastery in such encounters, he felt strong and solid, eager for the successes of the evening.  De Craye was in the first carriage as escort to the ladies Eleanor and Isabel.  Willoughby, with Clara, Laetitia, and Dr. Middleton, followed, all silent, for the Rev. Doctor was ostensibly pondering; and Willoughby was damped a little when he unlocked his mouth to say: 

“And yet I have not observed that Colonel de Craye is anything of a Celtiberian Egnatius meriting fustigation for an untimely display of well-whitened teeth, sir:  ’quicquid est, ubicunque est, quodcunque agit, renidet:’:—­ha? a morbus neither charming nor urbane to the general eye, however consolatory to the actor.  But this gentleman does not offend so, or I am so strangely prepossessed in his favour as to be an incompetent witness.”

Dr Middleton’s persistent ha? eh? upon an honest frown of inquiry plucked an answer out of Willoughby that was meant to be humourously scornful, and soon became apologetic under the Doctor’s interrogatively grasping gaze.

“These Irishmen,” Willoughby said, “will play the professional jester as if it were an office they were born to.  We must play critic now and then, otherwise we should have them deluging us with their Joe Millerisms.”

“With their O’Millerisms you would say, perhaps?”