Colonel Halkett seated himself.  Stukely Culbrett turned a sheet of manuscript he was reading.

Beauchamp began a caged lion’s walk on the rug under the mantelpiece.

‘I shall not spare you from hearing what I think of it, sir.’

’We ‘ve had what you think of it twice over,’ said Mr. Romfrey.  ’I suppose it was the first time for information, the second time for emphasis, and the rest counts to keep it alive in your recollection.’

’This is what you have to take to heart, sir; that Dr. Shrapnel is now seriously ill.’

‘I’m sorry for it, and I’ll pay the doctor’s bill.’

‘You make it hard for me to treat you with respect.’

’Fire away.  Those Radical friends of yours have to learn a lesson, and it’s worth a purse to teach them that a lady, however feeble she may seem to them, is exactly of the strength of the best man of her acquaintance.’

‘That’s well said!’ came from Colonel Halkett.

Beauchamp stared at him, amazed by the commendation of empty language.

‘You acted in error; barbarously, but in error,’ he addressed his uncle.

‘And you have got a fine topic for mouthing,’ Mr. Romfrey rejoined.

‘You mean to sit still under Dr. Shrapnel’s forgiveness?’

‘He’s taken to copy the Christian religion, has he?’

‘You know you were deluded when you struck him.’

‘Not a whit.’

‘Yes, you know it now:  Mrs. Culling—­’

‘Drag in no woman, Nevil Beauchamp!’

’She has confessed to you that Dr. Shrapnel neither insulted her nor meant to ruffle her.’

‘She has done no such nonsense.’

‘If she has not!—­but I trust her to have done it.’

‘You play the trumpeter, you terrorize her.’

’Into opening her lips wider; nothing else.  I’ll have the truth from her, and no mincing:  and from Cecil Baskelett and Palmet.’

‘Give Cecil a second licking, if you can, and have him off to Shrapnel.’

‘You!’ cried Beauchamp.

At this juncture Stukely Culbrett closed the manuscript in his hands, and holding it out to Beauchamp, said: 

’Here’s your letter, Nevil.  It’s tolerably hard to decipher.  It’s mild enough; it’s middling good pulpit.  I like it.’

‘What have you got there?’ Colonel Halkett asked him.

’A letter of his friend Dr. Shrapnel on the Country.  Read a bit, colonel.’

‘I?  That letter!  Mild, do you call it?’ The colonel started back his chair in declining to touch the letter.

‘Try it,’ said Stukely.  ’It’s the letter they have been making the noise about.  It ought to be printed.  There’s a hit or two at the middle-class that I should like to see in print.  It’s really not bad pulpit; and I suspect that what you object to, colonel, is only the dust of a well-thumped cushion.  Shrapnel thumps with his fist.  He doesn’t say much that’s new.  If the parsons were men they’d be saying it every Sunday.  If they did, colonel, I should hear you saying, amen.’