"Swear! It's enough to make the whole bench of bishops swear to see that lad."
"I did see him," Mrs. Chifney observed.
"Yes, out of window. But you didn't carry him round, and hear him talk—knowledgeable talk as you could ask from one of his age. And watch his face—as like as two peas to his father's."
"But her ladyship's eyes," put in Mrs. Chifney.
"I don't know whose eyes they are, but I know he can use 'em. It was as pretty as a picture to see how he took it all."
Chifney tossed off the remainder of his tumbler of brandy and water at a gulp.
"Swear," he repeated, "I could find it in my heart to swear like hell. But I can find it in my heart to do more than that. I can forgive her ladyship. By all that's——"
"Thomas, forgiveness and oaths don't go suitably together."
"Well, but I can though, and I tell you, I do," he said solemnly. "I forgive her.—Shoot the Clown! by G—! I beg your pardon, Maria;—but upon my soul, once or twice, when I had him in my arms to-day, I felt I could have understood it if she'd had every horse shot that stood in the stable."
He held the tumbler up against the lamp. But it was quite empty.