"Forgive me," said the gentleman, shrinking back; "but you remind me of- of—a family I once knew in the town. Do you know—the—the Mortons?"
One in Philip's situation, with, as he supposed, the officers of justice in his track (for Gawtrey, for reasons of his own, rather encouraged than allayed his fears), might well be suspicious. He replied therefore shortly, "I am quite a stranger to the town," and ensconced himself in the corner, as if to take a nap. Alas! that answer was one of the many obstacles he was doomed to build up between himself and a fairer fate.
The gentleman sighed again, and never spoke more to the end of the journey. When the coach halted at the inn,—the same inn which had before given its shelter to poor Catherine,—the young man in the white coat opened the door, and offered his arm to the young lady.
"Do you make any stay here, sir?" said she to the beau, as she unpinned her bonnet from the roof.
"Perhaps so; I am waiting for my phe-a-ton, which my faellow is to bring down,—tauking a little tour."
"We shall be very happy to see you, sir!" said the young lady, on whom the phe-a-ton completed the effect produced by the gentleman's previous gallantries; and with that she dropped into his hand a very neat card, on which was printed, "Wavers and Snow, Staymakers, High Street."
The beau put the card gracefully into his pocket-leaped from the coach- nudged aside his rival of the white coat, and offered his arm to the lady, who leaned on it affectionately as she descended.
"This gentleman has been so perlite to me, James," said she. James touched his hat; the beau clapped him on the shoulder,—"Ah! you are not a hauppy man,—are you? Oh no, not at all a hauppy man!—Good day to you! Guard, that hat-box is mine!"
While Philip was paying the coachman, the beau passed, and whispered him—
"Recollect old Gregg—anything on the lay here—don't spoil my sport if we meet!" and bustled off into the inn, whistling "God save the king!"