Those who heard the uncivil reply, looked towards the speaker somewhat curiously. When the wine's in, the wit's out—had Sidney Hinchford drowned his courtesy in his uncle's decanters? The prowler—he is a fugitive character, whose name we need not parade at this late stage to our readers—stared at our hero with the rest, but was not affected by it, or understood good breeding sufficiently well to disguise all evidence at his friend's table. He turned to Maurice with a laugh.
"Hinchford, old fellow, I leave the proposition in your hands. You who were always a lady's man."
"Not I."
"But I say you were—I say that you are. Do you think that I have forgotten all the aventures amoureuses of Maurice Darcy—I, his sworn brother-in-arms—his pupil?"
"Steady, Frank, steady!" cried Maurice.
But the guests were noisy, and the subject was a pleasant one to gentlemen over their wine, with the door closed on skirts and flounces. There were shouts of laughter at the prowler's charge—Maurice shook his head, blushed and laughed, but appeared rather to like the accusation than otherwise—Maurice's father, at home and at his ease, laughed with the rest. "A young dog—a young scapegrace!" he chuckled. Even Sidney's father laughed also—young men will be young men, he thought, and the prowler was pleasant company, and made the time fly. It is this after-dinner-talk, when the ladies have retired, and the bottle is not allowed to stand still, which pleases diners-out the most. This is the "fun of the fair," where the Merry-Andrew deals forth his jokes, and the wine-bibber appreciates the double-entendre all the more for the singing in his ears and the thick mist by which he is surrounded.
"Do you think that I have forgotten the stationer's daughter—by George! that was a leaf from romance, and virtuous indignation in the ascendant. Tell us the story, Maurice, we are all friends here; and though the joke's against you——"
"Gentlemen, I propose that we join the ladies," said Maurice, rising, with some confusion.
The guests laughed again noisily at this—it was so palpable an attempt to retreat, that the dining-room rang again with peals of laughter—Sidney Hinchford, sterner and grimmer than ever, alone sat unmoved, until Maurice had dropped into his seat in despair, and then he rose and looked across at his father.
"Are you ready?" he asked.