"So 'tis," mumbled his lordship, "demme if 'tisn't!"
"And I churned thirdly, because the labour entailed is admirable for the—hem! for tuning up the liver—I refer you to Marchdale."
"Nothing like it!" assented that youthful man of the world, "for liver, megrims or the pip give me a churn—and Betty along with it o' course."
"Ha," said Mr. Dalroyd, his smile growing a little malicious, "and then, having put your liver in tune with the churn you proceeded to put it out again by swallowing deep potations of—rhubarb wine of my lady's own decoction."
Sir Benjamin sat down, his plump features took on a careworn expression and he shuddered slightly.
"Rhubarb!" whispered Lord Alvaston, staring.
"Rhubarb!" muttered the Captain. "O Gad! Poor Ben!"
"Heroic Ben!" said Sir Jasper, his fine eyes more soulful than ever.
"Three glasses!" sighed Sir Benjamin. "Aye—three—she insisted! But, body o' me, sirs, what would you? Beauty is the—hem! the fount, the source, the mainspring of valour, is't not? As in olden days our ancestors were ready and eager to adventure life and limb for the bright eyes of their fair ladies, surely we, in like manner, should be equally willing to risk our—hem! our—I say to risk our——"
"Stomachs!" suggested Alvaston, "my own 'pinion precisely! Stomach's only stomach but th' heart's a noble organ—seat o' the 'flections and all that sort o' thing. Which reminds me, not a single ace have I held this game."