“Oh, nothing in the world to cause you uneasiness. A more honorable fellow never breathed than George.” “Then, what of him? How comes his name to your lips at such a discussion as this? Tell me, this instant, my Lord. I command I entreat you!” And the old man shook like one in an ague; but Norwood saw his vantage-ground, and determined to use it unsparingly. He therefore merely smiled, and said, “Pray be calm, Sir Stafford. I repeat that there is nothing worthy of a moment's chagrin. I was only about to observe that if I had the same taste for scandal-writing as poor Effy, I might have circulated a similar story about your son George. He left England, owing me a good round sum, for which, by the way, I was terribly 'hard up;' and although the money was paid eventually, what would you have thought of me what would the world have thought of him if I had written such an epistle as this?” And as he spoke, his voice and manner warmed into a degree of indignant anger, in which, as if carried away, he snatched the letter from the chimney-piece and threw it into the fire. The act was unseen by Sir Stafford, who sat with his head deeply buried between his hands, a low faint groan alone bespeaking the secret agony of his heart. “My son has, then, paid you? He owes nothing, my Lord?” said he, at last, looking up, with a countenance furrowed by agitation. “Like a trump!” said Norwood, assuming the most easy and self-satisfied manner. “My life upon George Onslow! Back him to any amount, and against the field anywhere! A true John Bull! no humbug, no nonsense about him! straightforward and honorable, always!” “Your position is, then, this, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford, whose impatience would not permit him to listen longer, “you have quitted England, leaving for future settlement a number of debts, for which you have not the remotest prospect of liquidation.” “Too fast, you go too fast!” said the Viscount, laughing. “Lord Effingdale writes the amount at thirty thousand pounds, and adds that, as a defaulter--” “There's the whole of it,” broke in Norwood. “You ring the changes about that one confounded word, and there is no use in attempting a vindication. 'Give a dog a bad name,' as the adage says. Now, I took the trouble this very morning to go over the whole of this tiresome business with George. I explained to him fully, and, I hope, to his entire satisfaction, that I was simply unfortunate in it, nothing more. A man cannot always 'ride the winner; 'I 'm sure I wish _I_ could. Of course, I don't mean to say that it 's not a confounded 'bore' to come out here and live in such a place as this, and just at the opening of the season, too, when town is beginning to fill; but 'needs must,' we are told, 'when a certain gent sits on the coach-box.'”