The captain fairly devoured her with his eyes as she made him a curtsey. But he was never lacking in gallantry, and was as brave on such occasions as when all the dangers of the deep threatened him. With an elaborate movement he took Miss Manners's fingers and kissed them, and then swept the floor with a bow. “To have such a divinity in my debt, madam, is too much happiness for one man,” he said. “I have done nothing to merit it. A lifetime were all too short to pay for such a favour.” I had almost forgotten Miss Dolly the wayward, the mischievous. But she was before me now, her eyes sparkling, and biting her lips to keep down her laughter. Comyn turned to fleck the window with his handkerchief, while I was not a little put out at their mirth. But if John Paul observed it, he gave no sign. “Captain, I vow your manners are worthy of a Frenchman,” said my Lord; “and yet I am given to understand you are a Scotchman.” A shadow crossed the captain's face. “I was, sir,” he said. “You were!” exclaimed Comyn, astonished; “and pray, what are you now, sir?” “Henceforth, my Lord,” John Paul replied with vast ceremony: “I am an American, the compatriot of the beautiful Miss Manners!” “One thing I'll warrant, captain,” said his Lordship, “that you are a wit.” Volume 5. CHAPTER XXVI. THE PART HORATIO PLAYED The bailiff's business was quickly settled. I heard the heavy doors close at our backs, and drew a deep draught of the air God has made for all His creatures alike. Both the captain and I turned to the windows to wave a farewell to the sad ones we were leaving behind, who gathered about the bars for a last view of us, for strange as it may seem, the mere sight of happiness is often a pleasure for those who are sad. A coach in private arms and livery was in waiting, surrounded by a crowd. They made a lane for us to pass, and stared at the young lady of queenly beauty coming out of the sponging-house until the coachman snapped his whip in their faces and the footman jostled them back. When we were got in, Dolly and I on the back seat, Comyn told the man to go to Mr. Manners's. “Oh, no!” I cried, scarce knowing what I said; “no, not there!” For the thought of entering the house in Arlington Street was unbearable. Both Comyn and Dorothy gazed at me in astonishment. “And pray, Richard, why not'?” she asked. “Have not your old friends the right to receive you.” It was my Lord who saved me, for I was in agony what to say. “He is still proud, and won't go to Arlington Street dressed like a bargeman. He must needs plume, Miss Manners.” I glanced anxiously at Dorothy, and saw that she was neither satisfied nor appeased. Well I remembered every turn of her head, and every curve of her lip! In the meantime we were off through Cursitor Street at a gallop, nearly causing the death of a ragged urchin at the corner of Chancery Lane. I had forgotten my eagerness to know whence they had heard of my plight, when some words from Comyn aroused me.