"’Tis so; what eyes you have for your age, Squire! I was just trying a new pen, and so full were my thoughts of my generous friend and patron that the pen ran of its own accord, mark you, into the familiar curves. And as I know how you abhor a letter, I will e’en tear up the paper and——" "Stay!" cried the old man, taking a sudden step forward; "knowing the pains you take in writing, ’tis pity they should be wasted. I set out designing to conduct my son to the army: I find I am embarked on a voyage of discovery; give me the paper." The command was uttered in a tone that broke down Aglionby’s bravado. He drew the letter from below the plate, and handed it in sullen silence to the squire. The old man pressed his lips grimly together as he unfolded the yet unsealed paper. Aglionby stuck out his legs wide apart, thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, and hung his head in moody dudgeon. "’Tis excellent pen-work; your hand grows fluent. ’_I thank you for the hundred guineas received_’"—Mr. Berkeley read aloud with deliberation and a dry emphasis that made Aglionby wince—"’_and trust the two hundred for which I beseeched you in my last will not tarry._’ To pay your landlord, I take it, for this—magnificent apartment." "A man must live," said the captain sullenly. "Ay, eat and drink, and sponge upon his betters for his cakes and ale." "Oons! Squire, ’tis rum." "A foul-smelling liquor.—What is this?—’_do violence to natural affection in the service of a munificent patron—inform on a cousin—Sherebiah Minshull condemned to be shot—my lord Marlborough—young Mr. Rochester—rid up in the nick of time._’"—Mr. Berkeley’s brow darkened as he read.—"Let me come to the end of it. ’_A visit to the Comtesse de Vaudrey in the interest of my patron—violent assault—in the mellay stumbled into a canal—costume totally ruined and cannot be replaced under ten guineas_’—I observe ’tis shrunk at the sleeve; I thought maybe you had grown, to match your magnificent apartment! Now, sirrah, how much of this precious epistle do you expect me to believe? A fine story, in truth, of the ills you suffer in your constant zeal for your ’munificent patron’: is it all of a piece with your ’magnificent apartment’? What have you done with, and for, my hundred guineas?—what, sirrah, your answer!" Aglionby felt that he was being wronged; he had, in fact, done all in his power; it was not his fault that failure had dogged him. Undoubtedly appearances were against him, and the biting emphasis of the old man’s delivery, the cold sneer that lurked in every repetition of his pet phrases, robbed him of speech. He writhed under the lash. Standing over him, the squire gave rein to his temper.