He struggled to his feet, forgot his wrath on the instant, and began to sing drunkenly the words of a ribald air.  I took him by both shoulders and pushed him back into his chair.

“Be quiet,” I said sternly; “while your mother and sister are here you shall not insult them with such a song.”  He ceased, astonished.  “And as for you, gentlemen,” I continued, “you should know better than to make a place of resort out of a gentleman’s house.”

Courtenay’s voice broke the silence that followed.

“Of all the cursed impertinences I ever saw, egad!” he drawled.  “Is this your manor, Mr. Carvel?  Or have you a seat in Kent?”

I would not have it in black and white that I am an advocate of fighting.  But a that moment I was in the mood when it does not matter much one way or the other.  The drunken man carried us past the point.

“The damned in—­intriguing rogue’sh worked himself into my father’s grashes,” he said, counting out his words.  “He’sh no more Whig than me.  I know’sh game, Courtenay—­he wants t’ marry Patty.  Thish place’ll be hers.”

The effect upon me of these words, with all their hideous implication of gossip and scandal, was for an instant benumbing.  The interpretation of the doctor’s innuendo struck me then.  I was starting forward, with a hand open to clap over Tom’s mouth, when I saw the laugh die on Courtenay’s face, and him come bowing to his legs.  I turned with a start.

On the stairs stood Patty herself, pale as marble.

“Come with me, Tom,” she said.

He had obeyed her from childhood.  This time he tried, and failed miserably.

“Beg pardon, Patty,” he stammered, “no offensh meant.  Thish factor thinks h’ ownsh Gordon’s now.  I say, not’ll h’ marries you.  Good fellow, Richard, but infernal forward.  Eh, Courtenay?”

Philip turned away, while the doctor pretended to examine the silver punch-ladle.  As for me, I could only stare.  It was Patty who kept her head, and made us a stately curtsey.

“Will you do me the kindness, gentlemen,” said she, “to leave me with my brother?”

We walked silently into the parlour, and I closed the door.

“Slife!” cried Courtenay, “she’s a vision.  What say you, Philip?  And I might see her in that guise again, egad, I would forgive Tom his five hundred crowns!”

“A buxom vision,” agreed my cousin, “but I vow I like ’em so.”  He had forgotten his cold.

“This conversation is all of a piece with the rest of your conduct,” said I, hotly.

The candles were burning brightly in the sconces.  The doctor walked to the glass, took snuff, and burnished his waistcoat before he answered.

“Sure, a fortune lies under every virtue we assume,” he recited.  “But she is not for you, Richard,” says he, tapping his box.

“Mr. Carvel, if you please,” I replied.  I felt the demon within me.  But I had the sense to realize that a quarrel with Dr. Courtenay, under the circumstances, would be far from wise.  He had no intention of quarrelling, however.  He made me a grand bow.