“My dear captain,” I cried; “nobody will insult you, and least of all my friends, the Manners.”  I had my misgivings about little Mr. Marmaduke.  “But we are, neither of us, equipped for a London season.  I am but an unknown provincial, and you—­” I paused for words.

For a sudden realization had come upon me that our positions were now reversed.  It seemed strange that I should be interpreting the world to this man of power.

“And I?” he repeated bitterly.

“You have first to become an admiral,” I replied, with inspiration; “Drake was once a common seaman.”

He did not answer.  But that evening as we came into Windsor, I perceived that he had not abandoned his intentions.  The long light flashed on the peaceful Thames, and the great, grim castle was gilded all over its western side.

The captain leaned out of the window.

“Postilion,” he called, “which inn here is most favoured by gentlemen?”

“The Castle,” said the boy, turning in his saddle to grin at me.  “But if I might be so bold as to advise your honour, the ‘Swan’ is a comfortable house, and well attended.”

“Know your place, sirrah,” shouted the captain, angrily, “and drive us to the ‘Castle.’”

The boy snapped his whip disdainfully, and presently pulled us up at the inn, our chaise covered with the mud of three particular showers we had run through that day.  And, as usual, the landlord, thinking he was about to receive quality, came scraping to the chaise door, only to turn with a gesture of disgust when he perceived John Paul’s sea-boxes tied on behind, and the costume of that hero, as well as my own.

The captain demanded a room.  But mine host had turned his back, when suddenly a thought must have struck him, for he wheeled again.

“Stay,” he cried, glancing suspiciously at the sky-blue frock; “if you are Mr. Dyson’s courier, I have reserved a suite.”

This same John Paul, who was like iron with mob and mutiny, was pitiably helpless before such a prop of the aristocracy.  He flew into a rage, and rated the landlord in Scotch and English, and I was fain to put my tongue in my cheek and turn my back that my laughter might not anger him the more.

And so I came face to face with another smile, behind a spying-glass,—­a smile so cynical and unpleasant withal that my own was smothered.  A tall and thin gentleman, who had come out of the inn without a hat, was surveying the dispute with a keen delight.  He was past the middle age.  His clothes bore that mark which distinguishes his world from the other, but his features were so striking as to hold my attention unwittingly.

After a while he withdrew his glass, cast one look at me which might have meant anything, and spoke up.

“Pray, my good Goble, why all this fol-de-rol about admitting a gentleman to your house?”

I scarce know which was the more astonished, the landlord, John Paul, or I. Goble bowed at the speaker.