“Which I never did, Master Spicer,” laughed in Beecher,—“you know well enough that I never did; but a fib won't choke you, old fellow.”
“At all events, I made it clear that you were really married, and to the daughter of a man that would send you home on a shutter if you threw any doubt on it.”
“Wouldn't he, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Beecher, with all the sincerity of a great fact “Well, after that, how did she take on?”
“She did n't say a word, but rocked from side to side, this way,—like one going to faint; and, indeed, her color all went, and she was pale as a corpse; and then she took long breaths, and muttered below her voice, 'This is worst of all!' After that she rallied, and certainly gave it to your Lordship in round style, but always winding it up with, 'Break it he shall, and must, if it was the Archbishop of Canterbury married them.'”
“Very fine talking, Master Spicer, but matrimony is a match where you can't scratch and pay forfeits. I wish you could,” muttered he to himself. “I wish you had the presence of mind and the pluck to have told her that it was my affair, and not hers. As to the honor of the Lackingtons and all that lot, she is n't a Lackington any more than you are,—she 's a De Tracey; good blood, no better, but she isn't one of us, and you ought to have told her so.”
“I own I 'd not have had courage for that!” said Spicer, candidly.
“That's what I'd have said in your place, Spicer. The present Viscount Lackington is responsible to himself, and not to the late Lord's widow; and, what's more, he is no flat, without knowledge of men and the world, but a fellow with both eyes open, and who has gone through as smart a course of education as any man in the ring. Take up the Racing Calendar, and show me any one, since Huckaback beat Crim. Con., that ever got it so 'hot' as I have. No, no, my Lady, it won't do, preaching to me about 'life.' If I don't know a thing or two, who does? If you 'd have had your wits about you, Spicer, that's what you 'd have told her.”
“I'm not so ready at a pinch as you are, my Lord,” muttered Spicer, who affected sullenness.
“Few are, Master Spicer,—very few are, I can tell you;” and in the pleasure of commending and complimenting himself and his own great gifts, Beecher speedily ceased to remember. What so lately had annoyed him. “Dine here at seven, Spicer,” said he, at last, “and I'll present you to my Lady. She 'll be amused with you.” Though the last words were uttered in a way that made their exact significance somewhat doubtful, Mr. Spicer never sought to canvass them; he accepted the invitation in good part, for he was one of those men who, though they occasionally “quarrel with their bread-and-butter,” are wise enough never to fall out with their truffles.