He was thinking of young men, their follies, their unreasoning audacities and how these things happened by the grace of Providence to benefit their wise elders. His face at its best, when he was doing something agreeable like savoring Burgundy or (if so innocent an action is to be conceived of him) when he smelled a violet, was a mask of malice; it was horrible now as he weighed his chances of dealing to his profit with Reuben. Whether he was right or wrong in his particular suspicion, there was plainly something of the exceptional about this dark young man. Hepplestall, considered as prey, struck him as a tough, tooth-breaking victim, and Mr. Bantison had not the least desire to break his teeth. He decided not to hazard their soundness--their whiteness was remarkable--upon what was still conjecture. He wanted many things which money would buy, but an orange already in his blackmailing grip was yielding good juice and every circumstance conspired with the excellence of Sir Harry’s Burgundy to persuade him to delay. His needs were not urgent. And yet, and yet-- But it wasn’t Bantison’s lucky night. As they sat down, Sir Harry cast a host’s glance round the table in search of a subject with which to set the conversational ball rolling again, and saw the spasm of malevolence which marked Bantison’s face in the moment of irresolution. “I’gad,” he cried to the table at large, “will you do me the favor to observe Bantison? A gargoyle come to meat. If it isn’t the prettiest picture I ever saw of devotion incarnate. Watch him meditating piety.” The company gave tongue obsequiously, ready in any case to dance when Whitworth piped, doubly ready in the case where a parson was the butt. Their mirth happened inopportunely for Bantison, proving at that crisis of his indecision, a turning point. Left alone, he would have remained passive: the taunt awoke aggression. “I crave your pardon, Sir Harry. I was in thought.” “The pangs of it gave your face a woundy twist. Out with the harvest of it, man! A musing that gave you so much travail should shed new light on the kingdom of heaven.” “I was thinking,” said Bantison, “of a kingdom more apocryphal; of the kingdom of the Stuarts,” and his eye, called Swivel, fell accusingly on Hepplestall. The attack was sudden, with the advantage of surprise, but in that company of slow-moving brains, already dulled by wine, there was none but Reuben who saw in Bantison’s allusion and Bantison’s quick-darting eye an attack at all. So far, the affair was easy. “They have their place,” said Reuben gravely, “in history.” “And--,” began Bantison combatively, but Sir Harry cut him short. “Drown history,” he said, “and mend your thoughts, Bantison. A glass of wine with you.” Aggression subsided in Bantison; he murmured, and felt, that it was an honor to drink with Sir Harry. For the time, the incident was closed.