At one moment of the evening Queeney confidently anticipated a ‘fracassy,’ he said.  One of the foreign party—­and they all spoke English, after five dozen bottles had gone the round, as correct as the English themselves—­remarked on the seventy-years Old Brown Sherry, that ‘it had a Madeira flavour.’  He spoke it approvingly.  Thereupon Lord Simon Pitscrew calls to Queeney, asking him ’why Madeira had been supplied instead of Esslemont’s renowned old Sherry?’ A second Welsh gentleman gave his assurances that his friend had not said it was Madeira.  But Lord Brailstone accused them of the worse unkindness to a venerable Old Brown Sherry, in attributing a Madeira flavour to it.  Then another Welsh gentleman briskly and emphatically stated his opinion, that the attribution of Madeira flavour to it was a compliment.  At this, which smelt strongly, he said, of insult, Captain Abrane called on the name of their absent host to warrant the demand of an apology to the Old Brown Sherry, for the imputation denying it an individual distinction.  Chumley Potts offered generally to bet that he would distinguish blindfold at a single sip any Madeira from any first-class Sherry, Old Brown or Pale.  ‘Single sip or smell!’ Ambrose Mallard cried, either for himself or his comrade, Queeney could not say which.

Of all Lord Fleetwood’s following, Mr. Potts and Mr. Mallard were, the Dame informs us, Queeney’s favourites, because they were so genial; and he remembered most of what they said and did, being moved to it by ’poor young Mr. Mallard’s melancholy end and Mr. Potts’s grief!’

The Welsh gentlemen, after paying their devoirs to the countess next morning, rode on in fresh health and spirits at mid-day to Barlings, the seat of Mr. Mason Fennell, a friend of Mr. Owain Wythan’s.  They shouted, in an unseemly way, Queeney thought, at their breakfast-table, to hear that three of the English party, namely, Captain Abrane, Mr. Mallard, and Mr. Potts, had rung for tea and toast in bed.  Lord Simon Pitscrew, Lord Brailstone, and the rest of the English were sore about it; for it certainly wore a look of constitutional inferiority on the English side, which could boast of indubitably stouter muscles.  The frenzied spirits of the Welsh gentlemen, when riding off, let it be known what their opinion was.  Under the protection of the countess’s presence, they were so cheery as to seem triumphantly ironical; they sent messages of condolence to the three in bed.

With an undisguised reluctance, the countess, holding Mr. Owain Wythan’s hand longer than was publicly decent, calling him by his Christian name, consented to their departure.  As they left, they defiled before her; the vow was uttered by each, that at the instant of her summons he would mount and devote himself to her service, individually or collectively.  She waved her hand to them.  They ranged in line and saluted.  She kissed her hand.  Sweeping the cavaliers’ obeisance, gallantest of bows, they rode away.