David hung his head for a moment, then lifted it with a smile, and sailed in the spirit into the China seas, and there told them how the Chinamen used to slip on board his ship and steal with supernatural dexterity, and the sailors catch them by the tails, which they observing, came ever with their tails soaped like pigs at a village feast; and how some foolhardy sailors would venture into the town at the risk of their lives; and how one day they had to run for it, and when they got to the shore their boat was stolen, and they had to ’bout ship and fight it out, and one fellow who knew the natives had loaded the sailors’ guns with currant jelly.  Make ready—­present—­fire!  In a moment the troops of the Celestial Empire smarted, and were spattered with seeming gore, and fled yelling.

Then he told how a poor comrade of his was nabbed and clapped in prison, and his hands and feet were to be cut off at sunrise; himself at noon.  It was midnight, and strict orders from the quarterdeck had been issued that no man should leave the ship:  what was to be done?  It was a moonlight night.  They met, silent as death, between decks—­daren’t speak above a whisper, for fear the officers should hear them.  His messmate was crying like a child.  One proposed one thing, one another; but it was all nonsense, and we knew it was, and at sunrise poor Tom must die.

At last up jumps one fellow, and cries, “Messmates, I’ve got it; Tom isn’t dead yet.”

This was the moment Mr. Fountain and Mr. Talboys chose for coming into the drawing-room, of course.  Mr. Fountain, with a shade of hesitation and awkwardness, introduced the Dodds to Mr. Talboys:  he bowed a little stiffly, and there was a pause.  Eve could not repress a little movement of nervous impatience.  “David is telling us one of his nonsensical stories, sir,” said she to Mr. Fountain, “and it is so interesting; go on, David.”

“Well, but,” said David, modestly, “it isn’t everybody that likes these sea-yarns as you do, Eve.  No, I’ll belay, and let my betters get a word in now.”

“You are more merciful than most story-tellers, sir,” said Talboys.

Eve tossed her head and looked at Lucy, who with a word could have the story go on again.  That young lady’s face expressed general complacency, politeness, and tout m’est egal. Eve could have beat her for not taking David’s part.  “Doubleface!” thought she.  She then devoted herself with the sly determination of her sex to trotting David out and making him the principal figure in spite of the new-corner.

But, as fast as she heated him, Talboys cooled him.  We are all great at something or other, small or great.  Talboys was a first-rate freezer.  He was one of those men who cannot shine, but can eclipse.  They darken all but a vain man by casting a dark shadow of trite sentences on each luminary.  The vain man insults them directly, and so gets rid of them.

Talboys kept coming across honest enthusiastic David with little remarks, each skillfully discordant with the rising sentiment.  Was he droll, Talboys did a bit of polite gravity on him; was he warm in praise of some gallant action, chill irony trickled on him from T.