“Marchioness!” says Harry, not without a pang of wonder, for he was curious and jealous already.

“Nonsense, my lord,” says Beatrix, with a toss of her head.  My Lady Viscountess looked up for a moment at Esmond, and cast her eyes down.

“The Marchioness of Blandford,” says Frank.  “Don’t you know—­hath not Rouge Dragon told you?” (My lord used to call the Dowager of Chelsey by this and other names.) “Blandford has a lock of her hair:  the Duchess found him on his knees to Mistress Trix, and boxed his ears, and said Dr. Hare should whip him.”

“I wish Mr. Tusher would whip you too,” says Beatrix.

My lady only said:  “I hope you will tell none of these silly stories elsewhere than at home, Francis.”

“’Tis true, on my word,” continues Frank:  “look at Harry scowling, mother, and see how Beatrix blushes as red as the silver-clocked stockings.”

“I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their wine and their talk,” says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with the air of a young queen, tossing her rustling flowing draperies about her, and quitting the room, followed by her mother.

Lady Castlewood again looked at Esmond, as she stooped down and kissed Frank.  “Do not tell those silly stories, child,” she said:  “do not drink much wine, sir; Harry never loved to drink wine.”  And she went away, too, in her black robes, looking back on the young man with her fair, fond face.

“Egad! it’s true,” says Frank, sipping his wine with the air of a lord.  “What think you of this Lisbon—­real Collares?  ’Tis better than your heady port:  we got it out of one of the Spanish ships that came from Vigo last year:  my mother bought it at Southampton, as the ship was lying there—­the ‘Rose,’ Captain Hawkins.”

“Why, I came home in that ship,” says Harry.

“And it brought home a good fellow and good wine,” says my lord.  “I say, Harry, I wish thou hadst not that cursed bar sinister.”

“And why not the bar sinister?” asks the other.

“Suppose I go to the army and am killed—­every gentleman goes to the army—­who is to take care of the women?  Trix will never stop at home; mother’s in love with you,—­yes, I think mother’s in love with you.  She was always praising you, and always talking about you; and when she went to Southampton, to see the ship, I found her out.  But you see it is impossible:  we are of the oldest blood in England; we came in with the Conqueror; we were only baronets,—­but what then? we were forced into that.  James the First forced our great grandfather.  We are above titles; we old English gentry don’t want ’em; the Queen can make a duke any day.  Look at Blandford’s father, Duke Churchill, and Duchess Jennings, what were they, Harry?  Damn it, sir, what are they, to turn up their noses at us?  Where were they when our ancestor rode with King Henry at Agincourt, and filled up the French King’s cup after Poictiers?  ’Fore George, sir, why shouldn’t Blandford