Ripton lunged for the claret jug.  He had got an old lady like an oppressive bundle on his brain, and he was as helpless as she was.  In the pangs of ineffectual authorship his ideas shot at her wig, and then at her one characteristic of extreme obstinacy, and tore back again at her wig, but she would not be animated.  The obstinate old thing would remain a bundle.  Law studies seemed light in comparison with this tremendous task of changing an old lady from a doll to a human creature.  He flung off some claret, perspired freely, and, with a mental tribute to the cleverness of those author fellows, recommenced:  “Oh, nothing!  She—­Richard knows her better than I do—­an old lady—­somewhere down in Suffolk.  I think we had better advise her not to proceed.  The expenses of litigation are enormous!  She—­I think we had better advise her to stop short, and not make any scandal.”

“And not make any scandal!” Algernon took him up.  “Come, come! there’s something more than a wig, then?”

Ripton was commanded to proceed, whether she did or no.  The luckless fictionist looked straight at his pitiless leader, and blurted out dubiously, “She—­there’s a daughter.”

“Born with effort!” ejaculated Hippias.  “Must give her pause after that! and I’ll take the opportunity to stretch my length on the sofa.  Heigho! that’s true what Austin says:  ’The general prayer should be for a full stomach, and the individual for one that works well; for on that basis only are we a match for temporal matters, and able to contemplate eternal.’  Sententious, but true.  I gave him the idea, though!  Take care of your stomachs, boys! and if ever you hear of a monument proposed to a scientific cook or gastronomic doctor, send in your subscriptions.  Or say to him while he lives, Go forth, and be a Knight!  Ha!  They have a good cook at this house.  He suits me better than ours at Raynham.  I almost wish I had brought my manuscript to town, I feel so much better.  Aha!  I didn’t expect to digest at all without my regular incentive.  I think I shall give it up.—­What do you say to the theatre to-night, boys!”

Richard shouted, “Bravo, uncle!”

“Let Mr. Thompson finish first,” said Algernon.  “I want to hear the conclusion of the story.  The old girl has a wig and a daughter.  I’ll swear somebody runs away with one of the two!  Fill your glass, Mr. Thompson, and forward!”

“So somebody does,” Ripton received his impetus.  “And they’re found in town together,” he made a fresh jerk.  “She—­a—­that is, the old lady—­found them in company.”

“She finds him with her wig on in company!” said Algernon.  “Capital!  Here’s matter for the lawyers!”

“And you advise her not to proceed, under such circumstances of aggravation?” Hippias observed, humorously twinkling with his stomachic contentment.

“It’s the daughter,” Ripton sighed, and surrendering to pressure, hurried on recklessly, “A runaway match—­beautiful girl!—­the only son of a baronet—­married by special licence.  A—­the point is,” he now brightened and spoke from his own element, “the point is whether the marriage can be annulled, as she’s of the Catholic persuasion and he’s a Protestant, and they’re both married under age.  That’s the point.”