The words were said lightly and pertly by the girl one night before supper, as the family party were assembled near the great fire.  The two lords, who were at cards, both gave a start; my lady turned as red as scarlet, and bade Mistress Beatrix go to her own chamber; whereupon the girl, putting on, as her wont was, the most innocent air, said, “I am sure I meant no wrong; I am sure mamma talks a great deal more to Harry Esmond than she does to papa—­and she cried when Harry went away, and she never does when papa goes away! and last night she talked to Lord Mohun for ever so long, and sent us out of the room, and cried when we came back, and—­”

“D—­n!” cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all patience.  “Go out of the room, you little viper!” and he started up and flung down his cards.

“Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis,” her ladyship said, rising up with a scared face, but yet with a great and touching dignity and candor in her look and voice.  “Come away with me, Beatrix.”  Beatrix sprung up too; she was in tears now.

“Dearest mamma, what have I done?” she asked.  “Sure I meant no harm.”  And she clung to her mother, and the pair went out sobbing together.

“I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank,” my Lord Mohun cried.  “Parson Harry may hear it; and, as I hope for heaven, every word I say is true.  Last night, with tears in her eyes, your wife implored me to play no more with you at dice or at cards, and you know best whether what she asked was not for your good.”

“Of course, it was, Mohun,” says my lord in a dry hard voice.  “Of course you are a model of a man:  and the world knows what a saint you are.”

My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had had many affairs of honor:  of which women as usual had been the cause.

“I am no saint, though your wife is—­and I can answer for my actions as other people must for their words,” said my Lord Mohun.

“By G—­, my lord, you shall,” cried the other, starting up.

“We have another little account to settle first, my lord,” says Lord Mohun.  Whereupon Harry Esmond, filled with alarm for the consequences to which this disastrous dispute might lead, broke out into the most vehement expostulations with his patron and his adversary.  “Gracious heavens!” he said, “my lord, are you going to draw a sword upon your friend in your own house?  Can you doubt the honor of a lady who is as pure as heaven, and would die a thousand times rather than do you a wrong?  Are the idle words of a jealous child to set friends at variance?  Has not my mistress, as much as she dared do, besought your lordship, as the truth must be told, to break your intimacy with my Lord Mohun; and to give up the habit which may bring ruin on your family?  But for my Lord Mohun’s illness, had he not left you?”

“’Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can’t run after other men’s wives,” broke out my Lord Mohun, who indeed was in that way, and with a laugh and a look at his swathed limb so frank and comical, that the other dashing his fist across his forehead was caught by that infectious good-humor, and said with his oath, “——­ it, Harry, I believe thee,” and so this quarrel was over, and the two gentlemen, at swords drawn but just now, dropped their points, and shook hands.