While his friends were thus pleasantly discussing him, Laurence was reading a remarkably full-flavoured and eloquent description of a "Serious Accident and Gallant Conduct," as the paragraph was headed, in which Lady Mitford's name and his own figured amongst the longest adjectives and most difficult adverbs. How the wildly excited steeds dashed away at a terrific pace; how the grasp of the lovely charioteer gradually relaxed, and how her control over the fiery animals was finally lost; how the attendant groom did everything that strength and science in equine matters could suggest, until he was flung, stunned and breathless, into the mire; and how finally, the gallant son of Mars, mounted on a matchless barb, came bounding over the hedge, and extricated the prostrate and palpitating form of the lovely member of the aristocracy from utter demolition at the hoofs of the infuriated animals. All this was to be found in the newspaper paragraph which Laurence was reading. This paragraph originated in a short story told by the groom in the bar of a public-house close to the mews, whither he had gone to solace himself with beer after the indignities he had suffered at Mr. Spurrier's hands, and where he had the satisfaction of repeating it to a broken-down seedy man, who "stood" a pint, and who took short notes of the groom's conversation in a very greasy pocketbook. Laurence was horribly disgusted, as could be seen by the expression of his face, and the nervous manner in which he kept twisting the ends of his moustache. The amusement of the other men was rather increased than diminished at his annoyance, and was at its height when Cis Hetherington asked: "What the doose is a 'matchless barb,' Alsager? I've seen all sorts of hacks in my time, but never met with one of that kind." "What do you mean by hacks?" said another. "A barb is a fellow that writes plays, ain't it? They call Shakespeare the immortal barb." "Ah, but they call him a Swan, and all kinds of things. There's no making out what a thing is by what they call him." Meanwhile Lord Dollamore had risen from the couch, and strolled over to the rug in front of the fire, where Laurence was standing. "You've begun your duties quickly, my dear Alsager. There are few fellows who get the chance of falling into their position so rapidly." "What position?" "That of champion of beauty in distress." "Position! I declare I don't follow you, my lord." "My dear Alsager, surely the East has not had the effect of rendering obtuse one of the keenest of men. Don't you recollect our talk the other night?" "Perfectly." "When I then expressed my opinion that Lady Mitford would have to go through the usual amount of danger, of course I meant moral, not actual, peril. However, the actual seems to have come first." "Ye-es. A smashed carriage and plunging horses may, I suppose, be looked upon as actual danger."