The letters had not yet been sorted, but the newspaper had been
brought in, and the Canon Boltby had possessed himself of it, and
was proclaiming scraps of intelligence about the King, Queen, and
Sir Robert Walpole, the character of Marshal Berwick, recently slain
at Philipsburg, an account of Spanish outrages at sea, or mayhap the
story of a marvelous beast, half-tiger, half-wolf, reported to be
running wild in France. The other gentlemen, waiting till the mail-
bags were opened, listened and commented; while one or two of the
squires, and a shabby, disreputable-looking minor canon made each
notable name the occasion of a toast, whether of health to his
majesty's friends or confusion to his foes. A squabble, as to
whether the gallant Berwick should be reckoned as an honest Frenchman
or as a traitor Englishman, was interrupted by the Major's entrance,
and the congratulations on his recovery.
One of the squires inquired after his daughters, and pronounced the
little one with the outlandish name was becoming a belle, and would
be the toast of the neighbourhood, a hint of which the topers were
not slow to take advantage, while one of the guests at the recent
party observed, "Young Belamour seemed to be of that opinion."
"May it be so," said the Canon, "that were a step to the undoing of a
great wrong.
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