Mr. Barton had taken his arm in a most confidential manner.
"I'm the friend of little Gabrielle Conyers, too," he observed shrewdly. "She needs one, poor maid. You know her brother?"
"I fought him once as a boy, and I meet him for the second time here to-night."
"Are you, too, a discerner of men?"
"Nay. I'm apt to be too hasty in my judgments, sir."
"Ah yes! Your mother was Irish, I remember. Hot blood for a fight, warm heart for a friend, true love for a wife. So you do not admire our friend's French-embroidered waistcoats?"
"I am no beau, and am little likely to choose my friends from the Carlton House set."
"Yet poor Morice has his finer qualities. Given adversity and a good sword he'd make a fighter and a gentleman."
"At present he is doubtless a pretty fool in the eyes of his tailor—and Lady Helmington."
"If the latter can raise her gaze from the whist-table, which is doubtful. But I still look for the day when Ralph Conyers' son will forget his follies and become a man. Still, I confess that I do not like French waistcoats."