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Updated: June 5, 2025
Byam Ryll arose and observed, in demure accents: "Suppose, my dear friends, that we join the ladies." I trust it will not be imagined, and far less hoped for, by any reader of this sober narrative, that the phrase which concluded the last chapter implies that he or she is about to be introduced to bad company. Mr.
"Muster," answered Ryll, derisively, as though it was a riddle. Carew laughed aloud. The nearer a retort approached to a practical joke, provided it was not at his own expense, the better he liked it. "What did the old beggar say?" inquired Mr. Frederick Chandos, his fair face crimson with anger.
A shadow of annoyance crossed the parson's smiling face. "Mr. Richard Yorke," said he, "this is Mr. Byam Ryll, our unlicensed jester." "The parson, on the contrary," retorted the other, with twinkling eyes, "is our Vice, and gives himself every license. What is the matter with Carew to-night? He looks glum.
"Unless what?" inquired Ryll, as he made his stroke at Yorke's ball, which was quite safe, and grazed it with his own, which, gliding off another ball, found its way into a pocket. For once, he had really allowed himself to be "put off" his aim. "Unless you commit suicide," replied the young fellow, smiling. "I was about to warn you of the danger of that kiss."
"You know nobody here, I suppose," observed the latter, "and, with a few exceptions, which I will name to you, that is not of much consequence. It is a shifting lot: they are here to-day and gone to-morrow, as says the Scripture, and I wish they were all going to-morrow except Byam Ryll.
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