Lance was simply beaming. A number of his old regiment were enrolled among the governor’s body-guard, and the sight of a redcoat did him, as he said, “a world of good.” As for Billy, he had reached the state of _nil admirari_, and was determined to be surprised at nothing. On the contrary, when the tavern servants had assumed that he was a country servant, Billy had completely turned the tables on them. Nothing in the Raleigh Tavern was good enough for him. He pished and pshawed in the most approved style, treated Colonel Byrd’s and Marshal Tyler’s servants with infinite scorn, and declined to be patronized even by Sir John Peyton’s own man, who had been to London. He called them all “cornfiel’ han’s,” and, as the way generally is, he was taken at his own valuation, and reigned monarch of all he surveyed in the kitchen, where he gave more trouble than Lord Fairfax himself. However, one person could bring Billy down with neatness and despatch. This was Lance, who, although belonging to a class of white people that Billy despised, yet was capable of reporting him to “Marse George,” so Billy was wary when Lance was around.