"On my soul, I protest you do me too much honour!" he murmured--"shall we sit?" Jack nodded, and Mr. Tawnish sank into a chair between myself and Bentley. "Delightful weather we are having," says he, breaking in upon a somewhat awkward pause, "though they do tell me the country needs rain most damnably!" "Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, giving himself a sudden thump in the chest, "I have no mind to talk to you of the weather." "No?" says Mr. Tawnish, with a tinge of surprise in his gentle voice, "why then, I'm not particular myself, Sir John--there are a host of other matters--horses and dogs, for instance." "The devil take your horses and dogs, sir!" cries Jack. "Willingly," says Mr. Tawnish, "to speak the truth I grow something tired of them myself; there seems very little else talked of hereabouts." "Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, beginning to lose his temper despite my admonitory frown, "the matter on which I would speak to you is my daughter, sir, the Lady Penelope." "What--here, Sir John?" cries Mr. Tawnish, in a horrified tone, "in the tap of an inn, with a--pink my immortal soul!--a sanded floor, and the very air nauseous with the reek of filthy tobacco? No, no, Sir John, indeed, keep to horses and dogs, I beg of you; 'tis a subject more in harmony with such surroundings." "Now look you, sir," says Jack, blowing out his cheeks, "'tis a good enough place for what I have to say to you, sanded floor or no, and I promise it shall not detain you long." Hereupon Jack rose with a snort of anger, and began pacing to and fro, striking himself most severely several times, while Mr. Tawnish, drawing out a very delicate, enamelled snuff-box, helped himself to a leisurely pinch, and regarded him with a mild astonishment. "Sir," says Jack, turning suddenly with a click of spurred heels, "you are in the habit of writing poetry?" The patch at the corner of the Honourable Horatio's mouth quivered for a moment. "Really, my dear Sir John--" he began. "You sent a set of verses to my daughter, sir," Jack broke in, "well, damme, sir, I don't like poetry!" "I do not doubt it for a moment, sir," says Mr. Tawnish, "but these were written, if you remember, to--the lady." "Exactly," cries Jack, "and you will understand, sir, that I forbid poetry, once and for all--curse me, sir, I'll not permit it!" "This new French sauce that London is gone mad over is a thought too strong of garlic, to my thinking," says Mr. Tawnish, flicking a stray grain of snuff from his cravat. "You will, I think, agree with me, Sir John, that to a delicate palate--" "The devil anoint your French sauce, sir," cries Jack, in a fury, "who's talking of French sauces?" "My very dear Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, with an engaging smile, "when one topic becomes at all--strained, shall we say?--I esteem it the wiser course to change the subject, having frequently proved it to have certain soothing and calming effects--hence my sauce."