At breakfast next day it was the same talk renewed; and when my lady said there was something free in the Lord Mohun’s looks and manner of speech which caused her to mistrust him, her lord burst out with one of his laughs and oaths; said that he never liked man, woman, or beast, but what she was sure to be jealous of it; that Mohun was the prettiest fellow in England; that he hoped to see more of him whilst in the country; and that he would let Mohun know what my Lady Prude said of him.

“Indeed,” Lady Castlewood said, “I liked his conversation well enough.  ’Tis more amusing than that of most people I know.  I thought it, I own, too free; not from what he said, as rather from what he implied.”

“Psha! your ladyship does not know the world,” said her husband; “and you have always been as squeamish as when you were a miss of fifteen.”

“You found no fault when I was a miss at fifteen.”

“Begad, madam, you are grown too old for a pinafore now; and I hold that ’tis for me to judge what company my wife shall see,” said my lord, slapping the table.

“Indeed, Francis, I never thought otherwise,” answered my lady, rising and dropping him a curtsy, in which stately action, if there was obedience, there was defiance too; and in which a bystander, deeply interested in the happiness of that pair as Harry Esmond was, might see how hopelessly separated they were; what a great gulf of difference and discord had run between them.

“By G-d!  Mohun is the best fellow in England; and I’ll invite him here, just to plague that woman.  Did you ever see such a frigid insolence as it is, Harry?  That’s the way she treats me,” he broke out, storming, and his face growing red as he clenched his fists and went on.  “I’m nobody in my own house.  I’m to be the humble servant of that parson’s daughter.  By Jove!  I’d rather she should fling the dish at my head than sneer at me as she does.  She puts me to shame before the children with her d—­d airs; and, I’ll swear, tells Frank and Beaty that papa’s a reprobate, and that they ought to despise me.”

“Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word but of respect regarding you,” Harry Esmond interposed.

“No, curse it!  I wish she would speak.  But she never does.  She scorns me, and holds her tongue.  She keeps off from me, as if I was a pestilence.  By George! she was fond enough of her pestilence once.  And when I came a-courting, you would see miss blush—­blush red, by George! for joy.  Why, what do you think she said to me, Harry?  She said herself, when I joked with her about her d—­d smiling red cheeks:  ’’Tis as they do at St. James’s; I put up my red flag when my king comes.’  I was the king, you see, she meant.  But now, sir, look at her!  I believe she would be glad if I was dead; and dead I’ve been to her these five years—­ever since you all of you had the small-pox:  and she never forgave me for going away.”

“Indeed, my lord, though ’twas hard to forgive, I think my mistress forgave it,” Harry Esmond said; “and remember how eagerly she watched your lordship’s return, and how sadly she turned away when she saw your cold looks.”