My Lord uttered something very near an oath.  And she spoke not a word more until I handed her out in Arlington Street.  The rest of us were silent, too, Comyn now and again giving me eloquent glances expressive of what he would say if she were not present; the captain watching her with a furtive praise, and he vowed to me afterward she was never so beautiful as when angry, that he loved her as an avenging Diana.  But I was uneasy, and when I stood alone with her before the house I begged her not to speak to her father of the episode.

“Nay, he must be cleared of such an imputation, Richard,” she answered proudly.  “He may have made mistakes, but I feel sure he would never turn you away when you came to him in trouble—­you, the grandson of his old friend, Lionel Carvel.”

“Why bother over matters that are past and gone?  I would have borne an hundred such trials to have you come to me as you came to-day, Dorothy.  And I shall surely see you again,” I said, trying to speak lightly; “and your mother, to whom you will present my respects, before I sail for America.”

She looked up at me, startled.

“Before you sail for America!” she exclaimed, in a tone that made me thrill at once with joy and sadness.  “And are you not, then, to see London now you are here?”

“Are you never coming back, Dolly?” I whispered; for I feared Mr. Marmaduke might appear at any moment; “or do you wish to remain in England always?”

For an instant I felt her pressure on my hand, and then she had fled into the house, leaving me standing by the steps looking after her.  Comyn’s voice aroused me.

“To the Star and Garter!” I heard him command, and on the way to Pall Mall he ceased not to rate Mr. Manners with more vigour than propriety.  “I never liked the little cur, d—­n him!  No one likes him, Richard,” he declared.  “All the town knows how Chartersea threw a bottle at him, and were it not for his daughter he had long since been put out of White’s.  Were it not for Miss Dolly I would call him out for this cowardly trick, and then publish him.”

“Nay, my Lord, I had held that as my privilege,” interrupted the captain, “were it not, as you say, for Miss Manners.”

His Lordship shot a glance at John Paul somewhat divided between surprise, resentment, and amusement.

“Now you have seen the daughter, captain, you perceive it is impossible,” I hastened to interpose.

“How in the name of lineage did she come to have such a father?” Comyn went on.  “I thank Heaven he’s not mine.  He’s not fit to be her lackey.  I would sooner twenty times have a profligate like my Lord Sandwich for a parent than a milk and water sop like Manners, who will risk nothing over a crown piece at play or a guinea at Newmarket.  By G—­, Richard,” said his Lordship, bringing his fist against the glass with near force enough to break the pane, “I have a notion why he did not choose to see you that day.  Why, he has no more blood than a louse!”