“No—certainly—not immediately,” answered Sir Bingo, with some hesitation, for he liked not the dry tone in which Tyrrel's answers were returned, half so well as a bumper of dry sherry; “only I said you were a d——d gnostic fellow, and I laid a bet you have not been always professional—that's all.”
Mr. Tyrrel replied, “A bet with Mr. Mowbray, I suppose?”
“Yes, with Jack,” replied the Baronet—“you have hit it—I hope I have done him?”
Tyrrel bent his brows, and looked first at Mr. Mowbray, then at the Baronet, and, after a moment's thought, addressed the latter.—“Sir Bingo Binks, you are a gentleman of elegant enquiry and acute judgment.—You are perfectly right—I was not bred to the profession of an artist, nor did I practise it formerly, whatever I may do now; and so that question is answered.”
“And Jack is diddled,” said the Baronet, smiting his thigh in triumph, and turning towards the Squire and the stake-holder, with a smile of exultation.
“Stop a single moment, Sir Bingo,” said Tyrrel; “take one word with you. I have a great respect for bets,—it is part of an Englishman's character to bet on what he thinks fit, and to prosecute his enquiries over hedge and ditch, as if he were steeple-hunting. But as I have satisfied you on the subject of two bets, that is sufficient compliance with the custom of the country; and therefore I request, Sir Bingo, you will not make me or my affairs the subject of any more wagers.”
“I'll be d——d if I do,” was the internal resolution of Sir Bingo. Aloud he muttered some apologies, and was heartily glad that the dinner-bell, sounding at the moment, afforded him an apology for shuffling off in a different direction.