“Indeed!” said Mark, reddening; for, though provoked and angry, he did not like to contest the judgment of Norman Maitland on such a point. “You 'll delight my sisters by this expression of your opinion; for my own part, I can only say I don't agree with it.” “The more reason not to avow it, Lyle. Whenever you don't mean very well by a man, never abuse him, since, after that, all your judgments of him become _suspect_. Remember that where you praise you can detract; nobody has such unlimited opportunities to poison as the doctor. There, now,--there's a bit of Machiavelism to think over as you dress for dinner, and I see it's almost time to do so.” CHAPTER XXII. THE DINNER AT TILNEY. When Maitland entered the drawing-room before dinner, the Commodore was standing in the window-recess pondering over in what way he should receive him; while Sally and Beck sat somewhat demurely watching the various presentations to which Mrs. Maxwell was submitting her much-valued guest. At last Maitland caught sight of where they sat, and hurried across the room to shake hands with them, and declare the delight he felt at meeting them. “And the Commodore, is he here?” “Yes; I 'll find him for you,” said Beck, not sorry to display before her country acquaintance the familiar terms she stood on with the great Mr. Maitland. With what a frank cordiality did he shake the old sailor's hand, and how naturally came that laugh about nothing, or something very close to nothing, that Graham said, in allusion to the warm quarters they found themselves in. “Such Madeira!” whispered he, “and some old '34 claret. By the way, you forgot your promise to taste mine.” “I 'll tell you how that occurred when we 've a quiet moment together,” said Maitland, in a tone of such confidential meaning that the old man was reassured at once. “I 've a good deal to say to you; but we 'll have a morning together. You know every one here? Who is that with all the medals on his coat?” “General Carnwroth; and that old woman with the blue turban is his wife; and these are the Grimsbys; and that short man with the bald head is Holmes of Narrow Bank, and the good-looking girl there is his niece,--and heiress too.” “What red arms she has!” whispered Maitland. “So they are, by Jove!” said Graham, laughing; “and I never noticed it before.” “Take me in to dinner,” said Mrs. Trafford, in a low voice, as she swept past Maitland. “I can't. Mrs. Maxwell has ordered me to give her my arm,” said he, following her; and they went along for some paces, conversing. “Have you made your peace with the Grahams?” asked she, smiling half maliciously. “In a fashion; at least, I have put off the settling-day.” “If you take to those morning rambles again with the fair Rebecca, I warn you it will not be so easy to escape an explanation. Here's Mrs. Maxwell come to claim you.”