“Say to your master, whoever he may be,” I replied, in some heat at the man’s sneer, “that I am travelling with Captain Paul.  That any invitation to me must include him.”

The lackey stood astounded at my answer, as though he had not heard aright.  Then he retired with less assurance than he had come, and John Paul sprang to his feet and laid his hands upon my shoulders, as was his wont when affected.  He reproached himself for having misjudged me, and added a deal more that I have forgotten.

“And to think,” he cried, “that you have forgone supping with a nobleman on my account!”

“Pish, captain, ’tis no great denial.  His Lordship—­if Lordship he is —­is stranded in an inn, overcome with ennui, and must be amused.  That is all.”

Nevertheless I think the good captain was distinctly disappointed, not alone because I gave up what in his opinion was a great advantage, but likewise because I could have regaled him on my return with an account of the meal.  For it must be borne in mind, my dears, that those days are not these, nor that country this one.  And in judging Captain Paul it must be remembered that rank inspired a vast respect when King George came to the throne.  It can never be said of John Paul that he lacked either independence or spirit.  But a nobleman was a nobleman then.

So when presently the gentleman himself appeared smiling at our door, which his servant had left open, we both of us rose up in astonishment and bowed very respectfully, and my face burned at the thought of the message I had sent him.  For, after all, the captain was but twenty-one and I nineteen, and the distinguished unknown at least fifty.  He took a pinch of snuff and brushed his waistcoat before he spoke.

“Egad,” said he, with good nature, looking up at me, “Mohammed was a philosopher, and so am I, and come to the mountain.  ’Tis worth crossing an inn in these times to see a young man whose strength has not been wasted upon foppery.  May I ask your name, sir?”

“Richard Carvel,” I answered, much put aback.

“Ah, Carvel,” he repeated; “I know three or four of that name.  Perhaps you are Robert Carvel’s son, of Yorkshire.  But what the devil do you do in such clothes?  I was resolved to have you though I am forced to take a dozen watchet-blue mountebanks in the bargain.”

“Sir, I warn you not to insult my friend,” I cried, in a temper again.

“There, there, not so loud, I beg you,” said he, with a gesture.  “Hot as pounded pepper,—­but all things are the better for a touch of it.  I had no intention of insulting the worthy man, I give my word.  I must have my joke, sir.  No harm meant.”  And he nodded at John Paul, who looked as if he would sink through the floor.  “Robert Carvel is as testy as the devil with the gout, and you are not unlike him in feature.”

“He is no relation of mine,” I replied, undecided whether to laugh or be angry.  And then I added, for I was very young, “I am an American, and heir to Carvel Hall in Maryland.”