“I beg your pardon, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly,” interposed MacDonough, with a significant smile, “but your observation was, I think, meant to apply to me.” The young man made no answer, but proceeded to fill his glass with claret, while his hand trembled so much that he spilled the wine about the table. Forester stared at him, expecting each instant to hear his reply to this appeal; but not a word escaped him, nor did he even look towards the quarter from which the taunt proceeded. “Didn't I tell you so, sir?” exclaimed MacDonough, with a triumphant laugh. “There are various descriptions of gentlemen: some are contented with qualities of home growth, and satisfied to act, think, and deport themselves like their neighbors; others travel for this improvement, and bring back habits and customs that seem strange in their own country; now, I don't doubt but in England that young gentleman would be thought all that was spirited and honorable.” “I have nothing to say to that, sir!” replied Forester, sternly; “but if you would like to hear the opinion my fellow-countrymen would have of yourself, I could perhaps favor you.” “Stop, stop! where are you hurrying to? No more of this nonsense,” cried the host, who had suddenly caught the last few words, while conversing with a person on his left. “I beg your pardon most humbly, sir,” said MacDonough, whose faced was flushed with passion, and whose lip trembled, notwithstanding all his efforts to seem calm and collected, “but the gentleman was about to communicate a trait of English society. I know you misunderstood him.” “Perhaps so,” said the host; “what was it, Captain Forester? I believe I did not hear you quite accurately.” “A very simple fact, sir,” said Forester, coolly, “and one that can scarcely astonish Mr. MacDonough to hear.” “And which is--?” said MacDonough, affecting a bland smile. “Perhaps you 'd ask for a definition, if I employ a single word.” “Not this time,” said MacDonough, still smiling in the same way. “You are right, sir, it would be affectation to do so; for though you may feel very natural doubts about what constitutes a gentleman, you ought to be pretty sure what makes a blackguard.” The words seemed to fall like a shell in the company; one burst of tumultuous uproar broke forth, voices in every tone and accent of eagerness and excitement, when suddenly the host cried out, “Lock the doors; no man leaves the room till this matter is settled; there shall be no quarrelling beneath this roof so long as Bagenal Daly sits here for his friend.” The caution came too late--MacDonough was gone. CHAPTER V. AN AFTER-DINNER STORY