"The same, sir," said Jack, rising, "and, sir, I wish a word with you." Here, however, remembering myself and Bentley, he introduced us--though in a very perfunctory fashion, to be sure.
"Sir John," says Mr. Tawnish, "your very obedient humble; gentlemen--yours," and he bowed deeply to each of us in turn, with a prodigious flourish of the laced hat.
"I repeat, sir," says Jack, returning his bow, very stiff in the back, "I repeat, I would have a word with you."
"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?"