"A touching sight, sir," said he sardonically to the landlord.

"A wondrous touching sight to behold a man of your years playing the turtle-dove to his good wife like the merest fledgeling.
It grieves me to intrude myself so harshly upon your cooing, though if you'll but let me pass you may resume your chaste embrace without uneasiness, for I give you my word I'll never look behind me." Abashed, the landlord and his dame fell apart.

Then, ere the gentleman could pass her, Mistress Quinn, like a true opportunist, sped swiftly down the passage and into the common room before her husband could again detain her.
Now, within the common room of the Suffolk Arms Sir Crispin sat face to face with a very pretty fellow, all musk and ribbons, and surrounded by some half-dozen gentlemen on their way to London who had halted to rest at Stafford.
The pretty gentleman swore lustily, affected a monstrous wicked look, assured that he was impressing all who stood about with some conceit of the rakehelly ways he pursued in town.
A game started with crowns to while away the tedium of the enforced sojourn at the inn had grown to monstrous proportions.

Fortune had favoured the youth at first, but as the stakes grew her favours to him diminished, and at the moment that Cynthia rode out of the inn-yard, Mr.
Harry Foster flung his last gold piece with an oath upon the table.
"Rat me," he groaned, "there's the end of a hundred." He toyed sorrowfully with the red ribbon in his black hair, and Crispin, seeing that no fresh stake was forthcoming, made shift to rise.

But the coxcomb detained him.
"Tarry, sir," he cried, "I've not yet done.