’Ah! and he hasn’t got too much spirit to work to pay his father’s debts,’ added Barnes.  ’There’s a business there to make any man’s fortune-properly directed, I say.  But, I suppose, like father like son, he’ll becoming the Marquis, too.  He went to a gentleman’s school, and he’s had foreign training.  I don’t know what to think about it.  His sisters over there—­they were fine women.’

’Oh! a fine family, every one of ’em! and married well!’ exclaimed the publican.

‘I never had the exact rights of that “Marquis” affair,’ said Grossby; and, remembering that he had previously laughed knowingly when it was alluded to, pursued:  ’Of course I heard of it at the time, but how did he behave when he was blown upon?’

Barnes undertook to explain; but Kilne, who relished the narrative quite as well, and was readier, said:  ’Look here!  I ’ll tell you.  I had it from his own mouth one night when he wasn’t—­not quite himself.  He was coming down King William Street, where he stabled his horse, you know, and I met him.  He’d been dining out-somewhere out over Fallow field, I think it was; and he sings out to me, “Ah!  Kilne, my good fellow!” and I, wishing to be equal with him, says, “A fine night, my lord!” and he draws himself up—­he smelt of good company—­says he, “Kilne!  I’m not a lord, as you know, and you have no excuse for mistaking me for one, sir!” So I pretended I had mistaken him, and then he tucked his arm under mine, and said, “You’re no worse than your betters, Kilne.  They took me for one at Squire Uplift’s to-night, but a man who wishes to pass off for more than he is, Kilne, and impose upon people,” he says, “he’s contemptible, Kilne! contemptible!” So that, you know, set me thinking about “Bath” and the “Marquis,” and I couldn’t help smiling to myself, and just let slip a question whether he had enlightened them a bit.  “Kilne,” said he, “you’re an honest man, and a neighbour, and I’ll tell you what happened.  The Squire,” he says, “likes my company, and I like his table.  Now the Squire ’d never do a dirty action, but the Squire’s nephew, Mr. George Uplift, he can’t forget that I earn my money, and once or twice I have had to correct him.”  And I’ll wager Mel did it, too!  Well, he goes on:  “There was Admiral Sir Jackson Racial and his lady, at dinner, Squire Falco of Bursted, Lady Barrington, Admiral Combleman—­our admiral, that was; ’Mr. This and That’, I forget their names—­and other ladies and gentlemen whose acquaintance I was not honoured with.”  You know his way of talking.  “And there was a goose on the table,” he says; and, looking stern at me, “Don’t laugh yet!” says he, like thunder.  “Well, he goes on:  Mr. George caught my eye across the table, and said, so as not to be heard by his uncle, ‘If that bird was rampant, you would see your own arms, Marquis.’” And Mel replied, quietly for him to hear, ’And as that bird is couchant, Mr. George, you had better look to your sauce.’  Couchant means squatting, you know.