“Well, you may thank your son for that. I say, Tom,” he added, addressing his niece, “he's a devilish good fellow; a queer chap, and I like him. Woodward, this is Tom Riddle, my niece. This scamp, Tom, is that woman's son, Mr. Woodward. He's an accomplished youth: I'll be hanged if he isn't. I asked him how many intrigues he has had, and he replied, with a dolorous face, only half a dozen yet. He only committed two murders, he says; and when I asked him if he thought there was any probability of his being hanged, he replied that, from a review of his past life, and what he contemplated in the future, he had little doubt of it.” Harry Woodward was indeed, a most consummate tactician. From the moment Miss Riddle entered the room, his air and manner became that of a most polished gentleman; and after bowing to her when introduced, he cast, from time to time, a glance at her, which told her, by its significance, that he had only been gratifying her uncle by playing into his whims and eccentricities. In the meantime the heart of Mrs. Lindsay bounded with delight at the progress which she saw, by the complacent spirit of the old peer, honest and adroit Harry had made in his good opinion. “Miss Riddle,” said he, “his lordship and I have been bantering each other; but although I considered myself what I may term, an able hand at it, yet I find I am no match for him.” “Well, not exactly, I believe,” replied his lordship; “but, notwithstanding, you are one of the best I have met.” “Why, my lord,” replied Woodward, “I like the thing; and, indeed, I never knew any one fond of it who did not possess a good heart and a candid disposition; so, you see, my lord, there is a compliment for each of us.” “Yes, Woodward, and we both deserve it.” “I trust Mr. Woodward,” observed his niece, “that you don't practise your abilities as a banterer upon our sex.” “Never! Miss Riddle; that would be ungenerous and unmanly. There is nothing due to your sex but respect, and that, you know, is incompatible with banter. “The wit that could wantonly sport with the modesty of woman degenerates into impudence and insult;” and he accompanied the words with a low and graceful bow. This young fellow, thought Miss Riddle, is a gentleman. “Yes, but, Mr. Woodward, we sometimes require a bantering; and, what is more, a remonstrance. We are not perfect, and surely it is not the part of a friend to overlook our foibles or our errors.” “True, Miss Riddle, but it is not by bantering they will be reclaimed. A friendly remonstrance, delicately conveyed, is one thing, but the buffoonery of a banter is another.” “What's that?” said the peer, “buffoonery! I deny it, sir, there is no buffoonery in banter.” “Not, my lord, when it occurs between gentlemen,” replied Woodward, “but you know, with the ladies it is a different thing.”