of such a fellow, by Jove! . . .his apostrophe to the father of the gods of pagandom signifying the amount of matter Warwick would have had reason to complain of in earnest.  By ricochet his military mind rebounded from his knowledge of himself to an ardent, faith in Mrs. Warwick’s innocence; for, as there was no resemblance between them, there must, he deduced, be a difference in their capacity for enduring the perpetual company of a prig, a stick, a petrified poser.  Moreover, the novel act of advocacy, and the nature of the advocacy, had effect on him.  And then he recalled the scene in the winter beech-woods, and Diana’s wild-deer eyes; her, perfect generosity to a traitor and fool.  How could he have doubted her?  Glimpses of the corrupting cause for it partly penetrated his density:  a conqueror of ladies, in mid-career, doubts them all.  Of course he had meant no harm, nothing worse than some petty philandering with the loveliest woman of her time.  And, by Jove! it was worth the rebuff to behold the Beauty in her wrath.

The reflections of Lothario, however much tending tardily to do justice to a particular lady, cannot terminate wholesomely.  But he became a gallant partisan.  His portrayal of Mr. Warwick to his wife and his friends was fine caricature.  ’The fellow had his hand up at my first word—­stood like a sentinel under inspection.  “Understand, Sir Lukin, that I receive you simply as an acquaintance.  As an intermediary, permit me to state that you are taking superfluous trouble.  The case must proceed.  It is final.  She is at liberty, in the meantime, to draw on my bankers for the provision she may need, at the rate of five hundred pounds per annum.”  He spoke of “the lady now bearing my name.”  He was within an inch of saying “dishonouring.”  I swear I heard the “dis,” and he caught himself up.  He “again declined any attempt towards reconciliation.”  It could “only be founded on evasion of the truth to be made patent on the day of trial.”  Half his talk was lawyers’ lingo.  The fellow’s teeth looked like frost.  If Lot’s wife had a brother, his name’s Warwick.  How Diana Merion, who could have had the pick of the best of us, ever came to marry a fellow like that, passes my comprehension, queer creatures as women are!  He can ride; that’s about all he can do.  I told him Mrs. Warwick had no thought of reconciliation.  “Then, Sir Lukin, you will perceive that we have no standpoint for a discussion.”  I told him the point was, for a man of honour not to drag his wife before the public, as he had no case to stand on—­less than nothing.  You should have seen the fellow’s face.  He shot a sneer up to his eyelids, and flung his head back.  So I said, “Good-day.”  He marches me to the door, “with his compliments to Lady Dunstane.”  I could have floored him for that.  Bless my soul, what fellows the world is made of, when here’s a man, calling himself a gentleman, who, just because he gets in a rage with his wife for one thing or another—­and past all competition the handsomest woman of her day, and the cleverest, the nicest, the best of the whole boiling—­has her out for a public horsewhipping, and sets all the idiots of the kingdom against her!  I tried to reason with him.  He made as if he were going to sleep standing.’