Mrs. Rowe, on her side, was amply revenged for Mrs. Cockayne’s airs of superiority, when Mr. Cockayne arrived in the company of Mr. John Catt, the betrothed love of Theodosia.

“You must be mad, Mr. Cockayne,” was his wife’s greeting directly they were alone—­“raving mad to bring that vulgar fellow John Catt with you.  Didn’t you get my letters?”

“I did, my dear; and they brought me over, and John Catt with me.  I, at least, intend to act an honourable part.”

“Perhaps you will explain yourself, Mr. Cockayne.”

“I have travelled from Clapham for that purpose.  Who the devil is this Viscount de Gars, to begin with?”

Mrs. Cockayne drew herself up to her full height, and looked through her husband—­or meant to look through him—­but just then he was not to be cowed even by Mrs. Cockayne.

With provoking coolness and deliberation over the exact relative quantities, Mr. Cockayne mixed himself a glass of grog from his brandy flask; while he proceeded to inform his wife that Mr. John Catt, who had been engaged, with their full consent, to their daughter, had, at his instigation, travelled to Paris to understand what all this ridiculous twaddle about Viscount de Gars meant.

“You will spoil everything,” Mrs. Cockayne gasped, “as usual.”

“I don’t know, madam, that I am in the habit of spoiling anything; but be very certain of this, that I shall not stand by and see my daughter make a fool of a young man of undoubted integrity and of excellent prospects, for the sake of one of these foreign adventurers who swarm wherever foolish Englishwomen wake their appearance.  I beg you will say nothing, but let me observe for myself, and leave the young people to come to an understanding by themselves.”

In common with many Englishmen of Timothy Cockayne’s and John Catt’s class, Theodosia’s father at once concluded that the poor polite little Vicomte de Gars was an adventurer, and that his coronet was pasteboard, and his shirt studs stolen.  Mr. John Catt distinguished himself on his arrival by loud calls for bottled beer, the wearing of his hat in the sitting-room, and by the tobacco-fumes which he liberally diffused in his wake.

When the little Vicomte made his accustomed appearance in the drawing-room, after the table d’hote, he offered the Cockayne ladies his profoundest bows, and was most reverential in his attitude to Mr. Cockayne, who on his side was red and brusque.  As neither Mr. nor Mrs. Cockayne could speak a French word, and Mr. John Catt was not in a position to help them, and was, moreover, inclined to the most unfavourable conclusions on the French nobleman, the presentations were on the English side of the most awkward description.  The demoiselles Cockayne “fell a giggling” to cover their confusion; and the party would have made a ridiculous figure before all the boarders, had not the Reverend Horace Mohun covered them with his blandness.