“I have no right to complain, sir,” said Everell, who sat with his face to the Squire, and his back to the door of the apartment; “a stranger intruding at this hour of the night must take what reception he finds.” “Very well said, sir. And at the same time I’ll show you as I know how to treat a gentleman, too, in case you be one.—Jabez,” for the servant had now entered, “tell Bartholomew to fetch a bottle of what I’ve been drinking. And tell the gentlemen at table—no, they bean’t gentlemen neither, and damn me if I’ll call ’em so!—tell ’em to make the best of it without me, I’ll be with ’em when I see fit.—A man is hard put to it for proper company sometimes, sir,” he explained, when Jabez had gone. “Though if some beggarly attorney, or worse, can do justice to his bottle, and tell a good tale or so, talk intelligently of dogs and horses, and listen with respect to his betters, why, some things may be winked at.” It was manifestly Thornby’s wish to postpone matters till the wine came; so Everell answered in the strain he thought likely to command the other’s favour. Bartholomew presently appeared with bottle and glasses, observed the pistols with mild wonder, and retired. “Now, sir,” said Thornby, “we’ll drink the lady’s health, and then for your business. Nay, don’t trouble yourself to reach; keep to your own side of the table.” And the Squire pushed bottle and glass to Everell’s hands, preferring that these should not come too close to the pistols. “The lady’s health, as I said. Shall we have her name, sir?” “Not at present, if you’ll excuse me.” “As you please. Health of the fair unknown in the closet—eh?” “The fair unknown in the closet,” said Everell, and the glasses went to the lips. “And now, by the Lord,” said the Squire, “you shall return the compliment. I’ve drunk to your fair companion: you shall drink to a lady of my proposing.” “With all my heart,” replied Everell, and dissembled his impatience while the glasses were filled anew. “Yes, sir,” said Thornby, “a lady of my proposing: the beauty of the four parishes—nay, the beauty of the county—damme, I may as well say the beauty of England! I’ll give her name, too: there’s no reason, as I know of, for to keep it back. To Miss Georgiana Foxwell!” “Miss Georgiana Foxwell,” echoed Everell, wondering, as he drank, whether she could hear herself thus twice honoured in so short a time. “I suppose you never saw that young lady I proposed, sir,” said Thornby, as he put down his glass and resumed his seat, for the toasts had been drunk standing. “I am a stranger in this part of England, sir,” Everell answered. “I take you for a town-bred man. Maybe, then, you’ve met an uncle of hers in London aforetime—one Mr. Robert Foxwell?” “I _have_ met a Mr. Robert Foxwell—but I cannot truly say I know much of him.” “The less the better, if truth must be told; he’s a damned supercilious fop! A rogue, too. He hates me like poison, but, for all that, he’ll let me marry his niece.”