Perhaps for the reason, that it was not a handsome instrument for display on fashionable promenades, Dartrey chose it among his collection by preference; as ugly dogs of a known fidelity are chosen for companions.  The Demerara supple-jack surpasses bull-dogs in its fashion of assisting the master; for when once at it, the clownish-looking thing reflects upon him creditably, by developing a refined courtliness of style, while in no way showing a diminution of jolly ardour for the fray.  It will deal you the stroke of a bludgeon with the playfulness of a cane.  It bears resemblance to those accomplished natural actors, who conversationally present a dramatic situation in two or three spontaneous flourishes, and are themselves again, men of the world, the next minute.

Skepsey handed it back.  He spoke of a new French rifle.  He mentioned, in the form of query for no answer, the translation of the barking little volume he had shown to Mr. Barmby:  he slapped at his breast-pocket, where it was.  Not a ship was on the sea-line; and he seemed to deplore that vacancy.

‘But it tells both ways,’ Dartrey said.  ’We don’t want to be hectoring in the Channel.  All we want, is to be sure of our power, so as not to go hunting and fawning for alliances.  Up along that terrace Miss Nesta lives.  Brighton would be a choice place for a landing.’

Skepsey temporized, to get his national defences, by pleading the country’s love of peace.

’Then you give-up your portion of the gains of war—­an awful disgorgement,’ said Dartrey.  ’If you are really for peace, you toss all your spare bones to the war-dogs.  Otherwise, Quakerly preaching is taken for hypocrisy.’

’I ‘m afraid we are illogical, sir,’ said Skepsey, adopting one of the charges of Mr. Durance, to elude the abominable word.

‘In you run, my friend.’  Dartrey sped him up the steps of the hotel.

A little note lay on his breakfast-table.  His invalid uncle’s valet gave the morning’s report of the night.

The note was from Mrs. Blathenoy:  she begged Captain Dartrey, in double underlinings of her brief words, to mount the stairs.  He debated, and he went.

She was excited, and showed a bosom compressed to explode:  she had been weeping.  ’My husband is off.  He bids me follow him.  What would you have me do?’

‘Go.’

‘You don’t care what may happen to your friends, the Radnors?’

‘Not at the cost of your separation from your husband.’

‘You have seen him!’

‘Be serious.’

’Oh, you cold creature!  You know—­you see:  I can’t conceal.  And you tell me to go.  “Go!” Gracious heavens!  I’ve no claim on you; I haven’t been able to do much; I would have—­never mind! believe me or not.  And now I’m to go:  on the spot, I suppose.  You’ve seen the man I ’m to go to, too.  I would bear it, if it were not away from . . . out of sight of I’m a fool of a woman, I know.  There’s frankness for you! and I could declare you’re saying “impudence” in your heart—­or what you have for one.  Have you one?’