“And his name?”
“Is Major Smithers Smythe. Got no end of medals. Was wounded at Agra in the Sepoy rebellion. Oh, he has a whole fund of anecdote, and tells such amusing stories. I’ll trot him out, dear, before the day is over. You’ll be quite charmed with him.”
“Oh, I dare say, and the other gentleman further on—”
“In a black coat and a white tie?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the Rev. Mr. Downbent. He’s taken three degrees at Oxford, and is a most eloquent preacher. Oh, you’ll like him, I am sure. The slender gentleman on the other side of the grass plot is Sir William Leathbridge, he is conversing with Lord Chetwynd—a very old family the Chetwynds—came in with the Conqueror. His lordship is a quiet, thoughtful man, who, as a rule, does not say much, but he thinks a good deal more, and, entrez nous, he is reputed to be a little gay. Keeps an opera dancer so I’ve been told, a beautiful Spanish woman, I believe; but one never knows what to believe nowadays—it may be all scandal. All I know is, that he is very charming, and as to a ‘gentleman’s private amours, that’s no business of yours, my dear,’ as poor dear Sir Eric used to say when such topics were broached.”
“Who is the one playing now?” inquired Aveline, glancing towards the party in question.
“That’s Captain Crasher. Oh, he’s another of the right sort; will sit and tell you stories till the small hours of the morning—that is, if you are disposed to listen to him.”
“And the gentleman with the long hair and dark moustache?”
“What—the one talking to Arabella?”