"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, giving himself a sudden thump in the chest, "I have no mind to talk to you of the weather."
"No?" says Mr. Tawnish, with a tinge of surprise in his gentle voice, "why then, I'm not particular myself, Sir John—there are a host of other matters—horses and dogs, for instance."
"The devil take your horses and dogs, sir!" cries Jack.
"Willingly," says Mr. Tawnish, "to speak the truth I grow something tired of them myself; there seems very little else talked of hereabouts."
"Mr. Tawnish," says Jack, beginning to lose his temper despite my admonitory frown, "the matter on which I would speak to you is my daughter, sir, the Lady Penelope."
"What—here, Sir John?" cries Mr. Tawnish, in a horrified tone, "in the tap of an inn, with a—pink my immortal soul!—a sanded floor, and the very air nauseous with the reek of filthy tobacco? No, no, Sir John, indeed, keep to horses and dogs, I beg of you; 'tis a subject more in harmony with such surroundings."
"Now look you, sir," says Jack, blowing out his cheeks, "'tis a good enough place for what I have to say to you, sanded floor or no, and I promise it shall not detain you long."
Hereupon Jack rose with a snort of anger, and began pacing to and fro, striking himself most severely several times, while Mr. Tawnish, drawing out a very delicate, enamelled snuff-box, helped himself to a leisurely pinch, and regarded him with a mild astonishment.
"Sir," says Jack, turning suddenly with a click of spurred heels, "you are in the habit of writing poetry?"
The patch at the corner of the Honourable Horatio's mouth quivered for a moment. "Really, my dear Sir John—" he began.