He tempered off this exhibition by showing us a collection of pottery famous in England, that had belonged to the fifth duke, his father.  Every piece of it, by the way, afterwards brought an enormous sum at auction.  Supper was served in a warm little room of oak.  The game was from Derresley Manor, the duke’s Nottinghamshire seat, and the wine, so he told us, was some of fifty bottles of rare Chinon he had inherited.  Melted rubies it was indeed, of the sort which had quickened the blood of many a royal gathering at Blois and Amboise and Chenonceaux,—­the distilled peasant song of the Loire valley.  In it many a careworn clown had tasted the purer happiness of the lowly.  Our restraint gave way under its influence.  His Grace lost for the moment his deformities, and Mr. Fox made us laugh until our sides ached again.  His Lordship told many a capital yarn, and my own wit was afterwards said to be astonishing, though I can recall none of it to support the affirmation.

Not a word or even a hint of Dorothy had been uttered, nor did Chartersea so much as refer to his Covent Garden experience.  At length, when some half dozen of the wine was gone, and the big oak clock had struck two, the talk lapsed.  It was Charles Fox, of course, who threw the spark into the powder box.

“We were speaking of hunting, Chartersea,” he said.  “Did you ever know George Wrottlesey, of the Suffolk branch?”

“No,” said his Grace, very innocent.

“No!  ’Od’s whips and spurs, I’ll be sworn I never saw a man to beat him for reckless riding.  He would take five bars any time, egad, and sit any colt that was ever foaled.  The Wrottleseys were poor as weavers then, with the Jews coming down in the wagon from London and hanging round the hall gates.  But the old squire had plenty of good hunters in the stables, and haunches on the board, and a cellar that was like the widow’s cruse of oil, or barrel of meal—­or whatever she had.  All the old man had to do to lose a guinea was to lay it on a card.  He never nicked in his life, so they say.  Well, young George got after a rich tea-merchant’s daughter who had come into the country near by.  ’Slife! she was a saucy jade, and devilish pretty.  Such a face! so Stavordale vowed, and such a neck! and such eyes! so innocent, so ravishingly innocent.  But she knew cursed well George was after the bank deposit, and kept him galloping.  And when he got a view, halloa, egad! she was stole away again, and no scent.

“One morning George was out after the hounds with Stavordale, who told me the story, and a lot of fellows who had come over from Newmarket.  He was upon Aftermath, the horse that Foley bought for five hundred pounds and was a colt then.  Of course he left the field out of sight behind.  He made for a gap in the park wall (faith! there was no lack of ’em), but the colt refused, and over went George and plumped into a cart of winter apples some farmer’s sot was taking to Bury Saint Edmunds to market.  The fall knocked the sense out of George, for he hasn’t much, and Stavordale thinks he must have struck a stake as he went in.  Anyway, the apples rolled over on top of him, and the drunkard on the seat never woke up, i’ faith.  And so they came to town.