Edward Hare was touched; his soft face became moved as by not distant tears.
“Good Lionel … dear coz! Odd’s babers! Do I not tell thee thou shalt have her?”
Ratcliffe resumed, casting his words into space with a sidelong watchfulness as to their effect.
“Whereas, mark, if Diana wed another, what of thee, then, my cock? ’Tis back to the bare ancestral acres with Sir Edward Hare. ’Tis farthing toss and small ale. For thou art poor, lad, damned poor! And a poor baronet—fie!”
The poor baronet made a wry face. He pushed his plumed hat off his forehead to scratch his perplexed head.
“Aye, small ale, plague on it! Farthing toss—pooh!”
“’Twill ne’er do, eh, Ned!” laughed the other.
“No, split me, ’twill ne’er serve a man like me!”
Sir Edward Hare rose, in his indignation, and promptly tripped again over his sword. Somewhat abashed, and trying the comfort of a new angle, he dropped his high tone once more for one of plaint:—