“Kate,” said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from Mrs. Morton, and lifted his youngest-born in his arms, “this is my brother and his son: they are welcome, are they not?”
Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with stiff affability, to Mrs. Morton, muttering something equally complimentary and inaudible.
The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and Arthur brought up the rear.
“Do you shoot?” asked Arthur, observing the gun in his cousin’s hand.
“Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my father: he is a famous shot. But this is only a single barrel, and an old-fashioned sort of detonator. My father must get me one of the new gulls: I can’t afford it myself.”
“I should think not,” said Arthur, smiling.
“Oh, as to that,” resumed Philip, quickly, and with a heightened colour, “I could have managed it very well if I had not given thirty guineas for a brace of pointers the other day: they are the best dogs you ever saw.”
“Thirty guineas!” echoed Arthur, looking with native surprise at the speaker; “why, how old are you?”
“Just fifteen last birthday. Holla, John! John Green!” cried the young gentleman in an imperious voice, to one of the gardeners, who was crossing the lawn, “see that the nets are taken down to the lake to-morrow, and that my tent is pitched properly, by the lime-trees, by nine o’clock. I hope you will understand me this time: Heaven knows you take a deal of telling before you understand anything!”
“Yes, Mr. Philip,” said the man, bowing obsequiously; and then muttered, as he went off, “Drat the nat’rel! He speaks to a poor man as if he warn’t flesh and blood.”