Jennings drew himself up with an air of insufferable impudence, and quietly answered,

“John Vincent, I am proud to leave your service.  I trust I can afford to live without your help.”

There was a general outcry at this speech, and Jonathan collared him again; but the baronet calmly set all straight by saying,

“Perhaps, sir, you may not be aware that your systematic thievings and extortions have amply justified me in detaining your iron chest and other valuables, until I find out how you may have come by them.”

This was the coup de grace to Jennings, who looked scared and terrified:—­what! all gone—­all, his own beloved hoard, and that dear-bought crock of gold?  Then Sir John added, after one minute of dignified and indignant silence,

“Begone!—­Jonathan put him out; and if you will kick him out of the hall-door on your private account, I’ll forgive you for it.”

With that, the liveried Antinous raised the little monster by the small of the back, drew him struggling from the presence, and lifting him up like a football, inflicted one enormous kick that sent him spinning down the whole flight of fifteen marble stairs.  This exploit accomplished to the satisfaction of all parties, Jonathan naturally enough returned to look for Grace; and his master, with a couple of friends who had run to the door to witness the catastrophe, returned immediately before him.

“Lord George Pypp, you will oblige me by leaving the young woman alone;” was Sir John’s first angry reproof when he perceived the rustic beauty radiant with indignation at some mean offence.

“The worthy baronet wa-ants her for himself,” drawled Pypp.

“Say that again, my lord, and you shall follow Jennings.”

Whilst the noble youth was slowly elaborating a proper answer, Jonathan’s voice was heard once more:  he had long looked very white, kept both hands clenched, and seemed as if, saving his master’s presence, he could, and would have vanquished the whole room of them.

“Master, have I your honour’s permission to speak?”

“No, Jonathan, I’ll speak for you; if, that is to say, Lord George will—­”

“Paardon me, Sir John Devereux Vincent, your feyllow—­and his master, are not fit company for Lord George Pypp;”—­and he leisurely proceeded to withdraw.

“Stop a minute, Pypp, I’ve just one remark to make,” hurriedly exclaimed Mr. Lionel Poynter, “if Sir John will suffer me; Vincent, my good friend, we are wrong—­Pypp’s wrong, and so am I. First then, let me beg pardon of a very pretty girl, for making her look prettier by blushes; next, as the maid really is engaged to you, my fine fellow, it is not beneath a gentleman to say, I hope that you’ll forgive me for too warmly admiring your taste; as for George’s imputation, Vincent—­”

“I beyg to observe,” enunciated the noble scion, “I’m awf, Poynter.”

He gradually drew himself away, and the baronet never saw him more.