—­Eight hundred? a thousand a year, two thousand, are as nothing in the calculation of a householder who means that the mistress of the house shall have the choicest of the fruits and flowers of the Four Quarters; and Thomas Redworth had vowed at his first outlook on the world of women, that never should one of the sisterhood coming under his charge complain of not having them in profusion.  Consequently he was a settled bachelor.  In the character of disengaged and unaspiring philosophical bachelor, he reviewed the revelations of her character betrayed by the beautiful virgin devoted to the sanguine coat.  The thrill of her voice in speaking of soldier-heroes shot him to the yonder side of a gulf.  Not knowing why, for he had no scheme, desperate or other, in his head, the least affrighted of men was frightened by her tastes, and by her aplomb, her inoffensiveness in freedom of manner and self-sufficiency—­sign of purest breeding:  and by her easy, peerless 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.