Demme, sir!” exclaimed Titmouse, starting aside with an offended air— “d’ye think I don’t know how to manage a sword? By all that’s tremendous"— and plucking the taper weapon out of its scabbard, he waved it over his head; and throwing himself into the first position — he had latterly paid a good deal of attention to fencing — and with rather an excited air, he went through several of the preliminary movements. ‘Twas a subject for a painter, and exhibited a very striking spectacle — as an instance of power silently concentrated, and ready to be put forth upon an adequate occasion. The tailor and the valet, who stood separate from each other and at a safe and respectful distance from Mr. Titmouse, gazed with silent admiration at him.

His self-conceit was so intense, that it consumed every vestige of sense he had about him. He stood in solitary grandeur upon the lofty pillar of his pride, inaccessible to ridicule, and insensible indeed of its approach, like vanity “on a monument smiling at” scorn. Indeed,

“His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.”