'You do not seem to be glad to see us again, sir?' said Colonel Montague.
'And devil a scratch between the pair of you!' cried Mr. Wogan. 'George, what does this mean? Am I to hear,' he asked with honest indignation, 'that one of you has debased himself to an apology?'
He looked from one to the other much perplexed in mind.
'It is too long a tale for the opportunity, Mr. Wogan,' said the Colonel laughing. 'But what does that mean?'
He pointed to the Water God in the perruque, whose shadow was reflected in the calm bosom of the lake.
'Colonel Montague,' cried Scrope, 'I appeal to you as a Protestant and an officer of his Majesty's for your protection against an Irish, Popish, Jacobite conspirator.'
'That gentleman,' said Wogan, 'whom I have been entertaining with Mr. Pope's poem, is an English Protestant, Whig, spy, and murderer, and even, I suspect, a writer in the newspapers. He persists in staying out in the water there, where I cannot get at him. He is one of the Maritime Powers. Egad! George, you know Mr. Scrope of Northumberland and Grub Street?'
George bowed to Mr. Scrope.
'The fourth time you see, sir, has been lucky, contrary to the proverb,' he said politely.
'The poor devil's teeth are chattering audibly,' said Colonel Montague. 'May I ask you to explain his situation, Mr. Wogan?'