’Just look at my frill!  Now, upon my honour, you know, I’m good-tempered; I pass their bucolic habits, but this is beyond bearing.  I was near the palings there, and a fellow calls out, “Hi! will you help the lady over?” Holloa! thinks I, an adventure!  However, I advised him to take her round to the gates.  The beast burst out laughing.  “Now, then,” says he, and I heard a scrambling at the pales, and up came the head of a dog.  “Oh! the dog first,” says I.  “Catch by the ears,” says he.  I did so.  “Pull,” says he. “’Gad, pull indeed!”, The beast gave a spring and came slap on my chest, with his dirty wet muzzle on my neck!  I felt instantly it was the death of my frill, but gallant as you know me, I still asked for the lady.  “If you will please, or an it meet your favour, to extend your hand to me!” I confess I did think it rather odd, the idea of a lady coming in that way over the palings! but my curst love of adventure always blinds me.  It always misleads my better sense, Harrington.  Well, instead of a lady, I see a fellow—­he may have been a lineal descendant of Cedric the Saxon.  “Where’s the lady?” says I.  “Lady?” says he, and stares, and then laughs:  “Lady! why,” he jumps over, and points at his beast of a dog, “don’t you know a bitch when you see one?” I was in the most ferocious rage!  If he hadn’t been a big burly bully, down he’d have gone.  “Why didn’t you say what it was?” I roared.  “Why,” says he, “the word isn’t considered polite!” I gave him a cut there.  I said, “I rejoice to be positively assured that you uphold the laws and forms of civilization, sir.”  My belief is he didn’t feel it.’

‘The thrust sinned in its shrewdness,’ remarked Evan, ending a laugh.

‘Hem!’ went Mr. Raikes, more contentedly:  ’after all, what are appearances to the man of wit and intellect?  Dress, and women will approve you:  but I assure you they much prefer the man of wit in his slouched hat and stockings down.  I was introduced to the Duke this morning.  It is a curious thing that the seduction of a Duchess has always been one of my dreams.’

At this Andrew Cogglesby fell into a fit of laughter.

‘Your servant,’ said Mr. Raikes, turning to him.  And then he muttered ‘Extraordinary likeness!  Good Heavens!  Powers!’

From a state of depression, Mr. Raikes—­changed into one of bewilderment.  Evan paid no attention to him, and answered none of his hasty undertoned questions.  Just then, as they were on the skirts of the company, the band struck up a lively tune, and quite unconsciously, the legs of Raikes, affected, it may be, by supernatural reminiscences, loosely hornpiped.  It was but a moment:  he remembered himself the next:  but in that fatal moment eyes were on him.  He never recovered his dignity in Beckley Court:  he was fatally mercurial.

‘What is the joke against this poor fellow?’ asked Evan of Andrew.