“You will be soon able to judge of that,” said Lord Etherington; “and now, off with you—Why do you look at me so anxiously?”
“I cannot tell—I have strange forebodings about this tête-à-tête with Mowbray. You should spare him, Etherington—he is not your match—wants both judgment and temper.”
“Tell him so, Jekyl,” answered the Earl, “and his proud Scotch stomach will be up in an instant, and he will pay you with a shot for your pains.—Why, he thinks himself cock of the walk, this strutting bantam, notwithstanding the lesson I gave him before—And what do you think?—He has the impudence to talk about my attentions to Lady Binks as inconsistent with the prosecution of my suit to his sister! Yes, Hal—this awkward Scotch laird, that has scarce tact enough to make love to a ewe-milker, or, at best, to some daggletailed soubrette, has the assurance to start himself as my rival!”
“Then, good-night to St. Ronan's!—this will be a fatal dinner to him.—Etherington, I know by that laugh you are bent on mischief—I have a great mind to give him a hint.”
“I wish you would,” answered the Earl; “it would all turn to my account.”
“Do you defy me?—Well, if I meet him, I will put him on his guard.”
The friends parted; and it was not long ere Jekyl encountered Mowbray on one of the public walks.
“You dine with Etherington to-day?” said the Captain—“Forgive me, Mr. Mowbray, if I say one single word—Beware.”
“Of what should I beware, Captain Jekyl,” answered Mowbray, “when I dine with a friend of your own, and a man of honour?”
“Certainly Lord Etherington is both, Mr. Mowbray; but he loves play, and is too hard for most people.”