rimed,
puppy-peeping, inconsolably comforted, preparatory to the resumption of
the great-coat he had so hopefully cast from his shoulders. Not downcast
by any means. Like an old Roman, the man of the sheer hulk with purple
eyemounds found his legs to do the manful thing, show that there was
no bad blood, stand equal to all forms. Ben Todds, if ever man in Old
England, looked the picture you might label 'Bellyful,' it was remarked.
Kit Ines had an appearance of springy readiness to lead off again. So
they faced on the opening step of their march into English History.

Vanquisher and vanquished shook hands, engaged in a parting rally of
good-humoured banter; the beaten man said his handsome word; the best
man capped it with a compliment to him. They drink of different cups
to-day. Both will drink of one cup in the day to come. But the day went
too clearly to crown the light and the tight and the right man of the
two, for moralizing to wag its tail at the end. Oldsters and youngsters
agreed to that. Science had done it: happy the backers of Science! Not
one of them alluded to the philosophical 'hundred years hence.' For when
England, thanks to a spirited pair of our young noblemen, has exhibited
one of her characteristic performances consummately, Philosophy is
bidden fly; she is a foreign bird.

CHAPTER XVII. RECORDS A SHADOW CONTEST CLOSE ON THE FOREGOING

Kit Ines cocked an eye at Madge, in the midst of the congratulations
and the paeans pumping his arms. As he had been little mauled, he could
present a face to her, expecting a wreath of smiles for the victor.

What are we to think of the contrarious young woman who, when he lay
beaten, drove him off the field and was all tenderness and devotion? She
bobbed her head, hardly more than a trifle pleased, one might say. Just
like females. They're riddles, not worth spelling. Then, drunk I'll get
to-night, my pretty dear! the man muttered, soured by her inopportune
staidness, as an opponent's bruisings could never have rendered him.

She smiled a lively beam in answer to the earl; 'Oh yes I 'm glad. It's
your doing, my lord.' Him it was that she thanked, and for the moment
prized most. The female riddle is hard to read, because it is compounded
of sensations, and they rouse and appeal to the similar cockatrices in
us, which either hiss back or coil upon themselves. She admired Kit Ines
for his valour: she hated that ruinous and besotting drink. It flung
skeletons o