The captain himself explained these alternating maternal caresses and quarrels in his easy way. “Saw how the old lady kissed and fondled me?” says he to his brother-in-law. “Quite refreshin’, ain’t it? Hang me, I thought she was goin’ to send me a bit of sweetbread off her own plate. Came up to my room last night, wanted to tuck me up in bed, and abused my brother to me for an hour. You see, when I’m in favour, she always abuses Baker; when _he’s_ in favour she abuses me to him. And my sister-in-law, didn’t she give it my sister-in-law! Oh! I’ll trouble you! And poor Cecilia—why hang me, Mr. Batchelor, she used to go on—this bottle’s corked, I’m hanged if it isn’t—to go on about Cecilia, and call her.... Hullo!” Here he was interrupted by our host, who said sternly— “Will you please to forget those quarrels, or not mention them here? Will you have more wine, Batchelor?” And Lovel rises, and haughtily stalks out of the room. To do Lovel justice, he had a great contempt and dislike for his young brother-in-law, which, with his best magnanimity, he could not at all times conceal. So our host stalks towards the drawing-room, leaving Captain Clarence sipping wine. “Don’t go, too,” says the captain. “He’s a confounded rum fellow, my brother-in-law is. He’s a confounded ill-conditioned fellow, too. They always are, you know, these tradesmen fellows, these half-bred ’uns. I used to tell my sister so; but she _would_ have him, because he had such lots of money, you know. And she threw over a fellar she was very fond of; and I told her she’d regret it. I told Lady B. she’d regret it. It was all Lady B.’s doing. She made Cissy throw the fellar over. He was a bad match, certainly, Tom Mountain was; and not a clever fellow, you know, or that sort of thing; but at any rate, he was a gentleman, and better than a confounded sugar-baking beggar out Ratcliff Highway.” “You seem to find that claret very good!” I remark, speaking, I may say, Socratically, to my young friend, who had been swallowing bumper after bumper. “Claret good! Yes, doosid good!” “Well, you see our confounded sugar-baker gives you his best.” “And why shouldn’t he, hang him? Why, the fellow chokes with money. What does it matter to him how much he spends? You’re a poor man, I dare say. You don’t look as if you were over-flush of money. Well, if _you_ stood a good dinner, it would be all right—I mean it would show—you understand me, you know. But a sugar-baker with ten thousand a year, what does it matter to him, bottle of claret more—less?” “Let us go into the ladies,” I say.