"'A peer and a 'prentice now dress much the same, And you can't tell the difference excepting by name.'"
"I don't know who your friend Dick Cypher may be," replied Sir Madoc, quietly, though evidently greatly ruffled, "but Burke and Debrett record as ancient, names we deem but those of yesterday, and when compared with ours are as the stunted gorsebush to pine or oak--yes, sir! or as the donkey that crops thistles by the wayside when compared to the Arab horse!"
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Pottersleigh, letting his hat sink farther on the nape of his neck, as he placed his gold glasses on his long thin nose and gazed at Sir Madoc, who tossed an empty bottle into the runnel, and continued:--"In Wales we have the lines of Kynaston, who descend from Rhodric Mawr, King of all Wales, and the daughter and coheir of the Bloody Wolf; the Mostyns, from the Lord of Abergeleu who founded the eighth noble tribe; the Vaughans, who come from that King Rhodric who married the daughter of Meuric ap Dyfnwall ap Arthur ap Sitsylt, though that was only in the year 800; and we have the Lloyds----"
"O, papa," exclaimed Winifred, seeing that Estelle was laughing heartily, "we cannot listen to more; and I am sure that your muster-roll of terrible names must have quite convinced Mr. Guilfoyle of his error."
"If it ever existed--I did but jest," said he, bowing and smiling as he turned to her.
Sir Madoc's gust of patriotic ire passed away at the sound of his daughter's voice; but from that moment his manner to Guilfoyle underwent a marked change, for he had already more than once contrived to wound him on this his most tender point. So the usually suave and kind old man became very cool to him as they rode homeward; and early that evening Guilfoyle retired to his room, alleging that he had to write letters.
After dinner, as we idled for a little time in the smoking-room prior to joining the ladies, Lord Pottersleigh led the conversation gradually back to our evening excursion, and with some hesitation began to speak of Guilfoyle.
"You will pardon me, my dear Sir Madoc, for venturing to speak slightingly of any friend of yours; but----"
"Mr. Guilfoyle is no friend of mine," said the other, hastily; "he dropped among us from the clouds, as it were. When with Lady Naseby I met him on the beach at Llandudno. He had done her some service on the Continent, at Catzeneln--what's-its-name?--I invited him on the strength of their past acquaintance--that's all."
"Then, briefly, get rid of him if you can."