"Well, sir," says I, "I'll make bold to say you recognise me," for I was amazed and disordered by his remarkable appearance in that house.
He looked me up and down. "Not the least in the world," says he, coolly, and arranged some nice point in his sleeves. "Who the devil may you be?"
"Rip me," says I, angrily. "The question is not that so much as who be you and what audacity brings you here? But if you want it you shall have it. My name is Ryder."
He paused again before he replied to me, and there was no manner of irritation in his voice, but merely languor.
"Well, Mr Ryder, one good turn deserves another; so my name is York, and I am a friend of Sir Philip Caswell."
"What!" said I, mightily taken aback at this rejoinder, as you may suppose, then I laughed. "S'blood," I said, "'tis a pretty demonstration of friendship to be for striking your bodkin in someone's belly, as you was an hour ago, you rogue."
York's eyebrows lifted at this, but I will admit he had a fine command of himself, which took my admiration, toad as he was. He was a healthy, ruddy man, of looks not displeasing.
"Indeed," says he to me, "why, here is news. Have we Simon Bedlam here, madam?" and he turned to miss, who had entered at that moment. He bowed very low to her, and the colour sprang in her face.
"Mr York," she cried, in a fluttered way.