“It is even as I tell you,” quoth he. “They are both as apt as tinder: it needs but a spark now to set the glow. ’Slife, Ned, I little thought thine would be the hand to strike flint!” “Mine, Cousin Lionel?” broke in the other, whining. “Nay, nay—” But the first, flinging out an accusing forefinger, bore down the plaintive interruption:— “Then why didst bring her over here to-day?—Come now, ’tis plain enough. Dost favour my suit, or young Rockhurst’s?” “Why, you know I’ll have none but you,” bellowed Edward Hare. “Harry Rockhurst …?” he cried. “Phew!” He snapped his fingers and blew through them, threw himself into an attitude of defiance and, so doing, stumbled into his new-fangled sword which, carry it at whatever angle he tried, seemed ever in his way. Ratcliffe steadied his kinsman, then, still holding him by the elbow, drew him toward the stone bench, overhung by climbing roses. Having jerked his companion down upon it, he let himself subside beside him, crossed his legs and proceeded, contemptuously, good-humoured yet incisive:— “If I wed Mistress Harcourt, your sister, is’t not a bargain? Shalt not continue to have bed and board and bottle beneath her roof? Aye, and many more of old Harcourt’s round pieces to chirp in thy pockets at cockfight and hammer fair? And when we go to Whitehall …” He paused impressively. Edward Hare was touched; his soft face became moved as by not distant tears. “Good Lionel … dear coz! Odd’s babers! Do I not tell thee thou shalt have her?” Ratcliffe resumed, casting his words into space with a sidelong watchfulness as to their effect. “Whereas, mark, if Diana wed another, what of thee, then, my cock? ’Tis back to the bare ancestral acres with Sir Edward Hare. ’Tis farthing toss and small ale. For thou art poor, lad, damned poor! And a poor baronet—fie!” The poor baronet made a wry face. He pushed his plumed hat off his forehead to scratch his perplexed head. “Aye, small ale, plague on it! Farthing toss—pooh!” “’Twill ne’er do, eh, Ned!” laughed the other. “No, split me, ’twill ne’er serve a man like me!” Sir Edward Hare rose, in his indignation, and promptly tripped again over his sword. Somewhat abashed, and trying the comfort of a new angle, he dropped his high tone once more for one of plaint:— “But, Lord, coz, what can I do? Di is like the bay filly: she’ll neither lead nor drive. Ain’t I always a-singing your praises? ‘There’s the husband for you, Di,’ say I. ‘There’s the lad for me,’ say I, twenty times a day.” Ratcliffe cursed his cousin in secret, as, rising in his turn, he clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “I marvel at you,” he bantered. “And will you walk your filly to the gate and expect her to take it on the standstill? Is that the way to deal with a woman? Shouldst say to her: ‘Hast noticed Cousin Lionel’s squint?… Prithee, sister, have ne’er a thing to do with Cousin Lionel: ’tis a sad bad man! Ah, there are tales, sister, terrible tales!’” Edward gaped.