At last up jumps one fellow, and cries, “Messmates, I've got it; Tom isn't dead yet.” This was the moment Mr. Fountain and Mr. Talboys chose for coming into the drawing-room, of course. Mr. Fountain, with a shade of hesitation and awkwardness, introduced the Dodds to Mr. Talboys: he bowed a little stiffly, and there was a pause. Eve could not repress a little movement of nervous impatience. “David is telling us one of his nonsensical stories, sir,” said she to Mr. Fountain, “and it is so interesting; go on, David.” “Well, but,” said David, modestly, “it isn't everybody that likes these sea-yarns as you do, Eve. No, I'll belay, and let my betters get a word in now.” “You are more merciful than most story-tellers, sir,” said Talboys. Eve tossed her head and looked at Lucy, who with a word could have the story go on again. That young lady's face expressed general complacency, politeness, and _tout m'est egal._ Eve could have beat her for not taking David's part. “Doubleface!” thought she. She then devoted herself with the sly determination of her sex to trotting David out and making him the principal figure in spite of the new-corner. But, as fast as she heated him, Talboys cooled him. We are all great at something or other, small or great. Talboys was a first-rate freezer. He was one of those men who cannot shine, but can eclipse. They darken all but a vain man by casting a dark shadow of trite sentences on each luminary. The vain man insults them directly, and so gets rid of them. Talboys kept coming across honest enthusiastic David with little remarks, each skillfully discordant with the rising sentiment. Was he droll, Talboys did a bit of polite gravity on him; was he warm in praise of some gallant action, chill irony trickled on him from T. His flashes of romance were extinguished by neat little dicta, embodying sordid and false, but current views of life. The gauze wings of eloquence, unsteeled by vanity, will not bear this repeated dabbing with prose glue, so David collapsed and Talboys conquered--“spell” benumbed “charm.” The sea-wizard yielded to the petrifier, and “could no more,” as the poets say. Talboys smiled superior. But, as his art was a purely destructive one, it ended with its victim; not having an idea of his own in his skull, the commentator, in silencing his text, silenced himself and brought the society to a standstill. Eve sat with flashing eyes; Lucy's twinkled with sly fun: this made Eve angrier. She tried another tack. “You asked David to bring his fiddle,” said she, sharply, “but I suppose now--” “Has he brought it?” asked Mr. Fountain, eagerly. “Yes, he has; I made him” (with a glance of defiance at Talboys).