"Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass.
"It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. "But I can guess what it's for. Sir Rowland is one of us," he added, winking at his companions, "and so was his brother-in-law, Sir Cecil Trafford. Old Lancashire families both. Strict Catholics, and loyal to the backbone. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though."
"Ah! you're so very particular," sighed Mrs. Wood.
"Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. Another glass, Jack."
"Thank'ee, Sir," grinned Sheppard.
"Off with it to the health of King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!"
"Hold!" interposed Wood; "that is treason. I'll have no such toast drunk at my table!"
"It's the king's birthday," urged the woollen draper.
"Not my king's," returned Wood. "I quarrel with no man's political opinions, but I will have my own respected!"
"Eh day!" exclaimed Mrs. Wood; "here's a pretty to-do about nothing. Marry, come up! I'll see who's to be obeyed. Drink the toast, Jack."