vivacity, her proofs of descent from the blood of Dan Merion—­a wildish blood.  The candour of the look of her eyes in speaking, her power of looking forthright at men, and looking the thing she spoke, and the play of her voluble lips, the significant repose of her lips in silence, her weighing of the words he uttered, for a moment before the prompt apposite reply, down to her simple quotation of Pat, alarmed him; he did not ask himself why.  His manly self was not intruded on his cogitations.  A mere eight hundred or thousand per annum had no place in that midst.  He beheld her quietly selecting the position of dignity to suit her:  an eminent military man, or statesman, or wealthy nobleman:  she had but to choose.  A war would offer her the decorated soldier she wanted.  A war!  Such are women of this kind!  The thought revolted him, and pricked his appetite for supper.  He did service by Mrs. Pettigrew, to which lady Miss Merion, as she said, promoted him, at the table, and then began to refresh in person, standing.

‘Malkin! that’s the fellow’s name’ he heard close at his ear.

Mr. Sullivan Smith had drained a champagne-glass, bottle in hand, and was priming the successor to it.  He cocked his eye at Mr. Redworth’s quick stare.  ‘Malkin!’ And now we’ll see whether the interior of him is grey, or black, or tabby, or tortoise-shell, or any other colour of the Malkin breed.’

He explained to Mr. Redworth that he had summoned Mr. Malkin to answer to him as a gentleman for calling Miss Merion a jilt.  ’The man, sir, said in my hearing, she jilted him, and that’s to call the lady a jilt.  There’s not a point of difference, not a shade.  I overheard him.  I happened by the blessing of Providence to be by when he named her publicly jilt.  And it’s enough that she’s a lady to have me for her champion.  The same if she had been an Esquimaux squaw.  I’ll never live to hear a lady insulted.’

‘You don’t mean to say you’re the donkey to provoke a duel!’ Mr. Redworth burst out gruffly, through turkey and stuffing.

‘And an Irish lady, the young Beauty of Erin!’ Mr. Sullivan Smith was flowing on.  He became frigid, he politely bowed:  ’Two, sir, if you haven’t the grace to withdraw the offensive term before it cools and can’t be obliterated.’

‘Fiddle! and go to the deuce!’ Mr. Redworth cried.

‘Would a soft slap o’ the cheek persuade you, sir?’

’Try it outside, and don’t bother me with nonsense of that sort at my supper.  If I’m struck, I strike back.  I keep my pistols for bandits and law-breakers.  Here,’ said Mr. Redworth, better inspired as to the way of treating an ultra of the isle; ’touch glasses:  you’re a gentleman, and won’t disturb good company.  By-and-by.’

The pleasing prospect of by-and-by renewed in Mr. Sullivan Smith his composure.  They touched the foaming glasses:  upon which, in a friendly manner, Mr. Sullivan Smith proposed that they should go outside as soon as Mr. Redworth had finished supper-quite finished supper:  for the reason that the term ‘donkey’ affixed to him was like a minster cap of schooldays, ringing bells on his topknot, and also that it stuck in his gizzard.