"Everything's going to the dogs!" cried poor Sir Clarence, with an oath;
"and no gentleman, by ---, ought to condescend to exist!"

"Come, Malmaison," said Pennroyal, smiling and cracking filberts, "you're
going too far. Things are not so bad. And there are compensations!"

"Compensations? What compensations? What the devil do you mean?"

"Ha, ha! Well, for instance, about the poor Colonel. Of course, we're all
dooced sorry to lose the Colonel; fine old chap, and a good hand at
piquet. But after all he had to go some time; and then what happens? The
fair Miss Battledown becomes the richest heiress in the three counties."

"Ay, and what's the compensation in that? What good does her being an
heiress do me? Can my boy marry her? Answer me that!"

"Well, I should fancy not; but somebody else can."

"Somebody else? Who, I'd like to know?" bawled Sir Clarence. "Let me see
the scoundrel who'll dare to marry Kate Battledown--let me see him!"

"I hear you quite plainly, Malmaison; and I wouldn't exert myself so much
if I were you--you know what the doctor said. As for Miss Battledown,
surely she has a right to marry whom she pleases, hasn't she?"

"No, she has not!" returned the baronet, getting angrier than ever. "She
belongs to my Archibald; and if any scoundrel--"

"Really, you are intolerable, Sir Clarence," interrupted Pennroyal, still
smiling, but not a pleasant smile. "A man whose temper is faulty at the