"Here in bowery Westerham," continued Sir Benjamin, laced handkerchief gracefully a-flutter, "here in this smiling countryside celebrated alike for hem! for beauty—I say for beauty and—and—
"Beer!" suggested his lordship sleepily.
"No, no, Alvaston—'od, no sir—tush! Egad you quite put me out! Where was I? Aye—the smiling country-side famous alike for beauty of scene, of womenkind, of——"
"Horses!" said the Marquis.
"A plague o' your horses, sir!"
"But Ben——"
"I say I'll have none of 'em, sir! Here, dear lady, within these Arcadian solitudes we exist like so many Hermits of Love, passing our days immune from strife political and the clash of faction, remote from the joys of London—its wose, its hem! I say its——"
"Dust!" sighed Sir Jasper.
"Aye, its dust, its——"
"Watchmen!" quoth Mr. Marchdale.