Martha Skepsey had given him a son to show the hereditary energy in his crying and coughing; and it was owing, he could plead, to her habits and her tongue, that he sometimes, that he might avoid the doing of worse—­ for she wanted correction and was improved by it—­courted the excitement of a short exhibition of skill, man to man, on publicans’ first floors.  He could have told the magistrates so, in part apology for the circumstances dragging him the other day, so recently, before his Worship; and he might have told it, if he had not remembered Captain Dartrey Fenellan’s words about treating women chivalrously which was interpreted by Skepsey as correcting them, when called upon to do it, but never exposing them only, if allowed to account for the circumstances pushing us into the newspapers, we should not present so guilty a look before the public.

Furthermore, as to how far it is the duty of a man to serve his master, there is likewise question:  whether is he, while receiving reproof and punishment for excess of zeal in the service of his master, not to mention the welfare of the country, morally—­without establishing it as a principle—­exonerated?  Miss Graves might be asked save that one would not voluntarily trouble a lady on such subjects.  But supposing, says the opposing counsel, now at work in Skepsey’s conscience, supposing this act, for which, contraveneing the law of the land, you are reproved and punished, to be agreeable to you, how then?  We answer, supposing it—­and we take uncomplainingly the magistrate’s reproof and punishment—­morally justified can it be expected of us to have the sense of guilt, although we wear and know we wear a guilty look before the public?

His master and the dear ladies would hear of it; perhaps they knew of it now; with them would rest the settlement of the distressing inquiry.  The ladies would be shocked ladies cannot bear any semblance of roughness, not even with the gloves:—­and knowing, as they must, that our practise of the manly art is for their protection.

Skepsey’s grievous prospect of the hour to come under judgement of a sex that was ever a riddle unread, clouded him on the approach to Dreux.  He studied the country and the people eagerly; he forbore to conduct great military operations.  Mr. Durance had spoken of big battles round about the town of Dreux; also of a wonderful Mausoleum there, not equally interesting.  The little man was in deeper gloom than a day sobering on crimson dusk when the train stopped and his quick ear caught the sound of the station, as pronounced by his friend at Rouen.

He handed his card to the station-master.  A glance, and the latter signalled to a porter, saying:  ‘Paradis’; and the porter laid hold of Skepsey’s bag.  Skepsey’s grasp was firm; he pulled, the porter pulled.  Skepsey heard explanatory speech accompanying a wrench.  He wrenched back with vigour, and in his own tongue exclaimed, that he held to the bag because his master’s