“Ah, Sir Ralph,” cried Smith, “how d’ye do? been hunting all day, I suppose?”
“Yes, old cock,” replied Sir Ralph; “been after the brush till I am quite done up; such a glorious run. By G—, you should have seen my grey mare, Smith; by G—, she’s a glorious fencer.”
“You don’t hunt, do you, Ritson?” interrogated Mr. Smith.
“Yes, I do,” replied Mr. Ritson, affectedly playing with his Woodstock glove; “yes, but I only hunt in Leicestershire with my friend, Lord Bobadob; ‘tis not the thing to hunt any where else, ‘tis so vulgar.”
Sir Ralph stared at the speaker with mute contempt: while Mr. Smith, like the ass between the hay, stood balancing betwixt the opposing merits of the baronet and the beau. Meanwhile, a smiling, nodding, affected female thing, in ringlets and flowers, flirted up to the trio.
“Now, reelly, Mr. Smith, you should deence; a feeshionable young man, like you—I don’t know what the young leedies will say to you.” And the fair seducer laughed bewitchingly.
“You are very good, Mrs. Dollimore,” replied Mr. Smith, with a blush and a low bow; “but Mr. Ritson tells me it is not the thing to dance.”
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Dollimore, “but then he’s seech a naughty, conceited creature—don’t follow his example, Meester Smith;” and again the good lady laughed immoderately.
“Nay, Mrs. Dollimore,” said Mr. Ritson, passing his hand through his abominable hair, “you are too severe; but tell me, Mrs. Dollimore, is the Countess St. A—coming here?”
“Now, reelly, Mr. Ritson, you, who are the pink of feeshion, ought to know better than I can; but I hear so.”