"Good!" he cries--"you are in a cheerful and contented mood. You drop in just when Lavinia has perfected her butter, and made it as fresh as a nosegay; and when the cook has sent up bread as sweet as a kernel, to say nothing of the broil, done to a turn--you come when this highly desirable state of things has been arrived at, and presume to say that this is done, that is burnt, the other is tainted with garlic! Admire your own judgment!" And the Squire laughs jovially at his discomfited and growling opponent. "True, Lavinia has had lately much to distract her attention," says the jest-hunting Squire; "but her things were never better in spite of--. Well we won't touch upon that subject!" And the mischievous Squire laughs heartily at Miss Lavinia's stately and reproving expression. "What's that?" says Mr. Rushton; "what subject?" "Oh, nothing--nothing." "What does he mean, madam?" asks Mr. Rushton, of the lady. Miss Lavinia colors slightly, and looks more stately than ever. "Nothing, sir," she says, with dignity. "'Nothing!' nobody ever means anything!" "Oh, never," says the Squire, and then he adds, mischievously,--"by-the-by, Rushton, how is my friend, Mr. Roundjacket?" "As villainous as ever," says the lawyer; "my opinion of Mr. Roundjacket, sir, is, that he is a villain!" Miss Lavinia colors to the temples--the Squire nearly bursts with pent-up laughter. "What has he done? A villain did you say?" he asks. "Yes, sir!--a wretch!" "Possible?" "Yes--it is possible: and if you knew as much of human nature as I do, you would never feel surprised at any man's turning out a villain and a wretch! I am a wretch myself, sir!" And scowling at the Squire, Mr. Rushton goes on with his breakfast. The Squire utters various inarticulate sounds which seem to indicate the stoppage of a bone in his throat. Nevertheless he soon recovers his powers of speech, and says: "But how is Roundjacket so bad?" "He has taken to writing poetry." "That's an old charge." "No, sir--he has grown far worse, lately. He is writing an epic--an epic!" And the lawyer looked inexpressibly disgusted. "I should think a gentleman might compose an epic poem without rendering himself amenable to insult, sir," says Miss Lavinia, with freezing hauteur. "You are mistaken," says Mr. Rushton; "your sex, madam, know nothing of business. The lawyer who takes to writing poetry, must necessarily neglect the legal business entrusted to him, and for which he is paid. Now, madam," added Mr. Rushton, triumphantly, "I defy you, or any other man--individual, I mean--to say that the person who takes money without giving an equivalent, is not a villain and a wretch!" Miss Lavinia colors, and mutters inarticulately.