“What, the hero of Chester Park returned, without having once narrated his adventures tome?”
“Beautiful Lady Roseville,” said I, “I plead guilty of negligence—not treason. I forgot, it is true, to appear before you, but I forget not the devotion of my duty now that I behold you. Command, and I obey.”
“See, Ellen,” said Lady Roseville, turning to a bending and blushing countenance beside her, which I then first perceived—“See what it is to be a knight errant; even his language, is worthy of Amadis of Gaul—but—(again addressing me) your adventures are really too shocking a subject to treat lightly. We lay our serious orders on you to come to our castle this night: we shall be alone.”
“Willingly shall I repair to your bower, fayre ladie; but tell me, I beseech you, how many persons are signified in the world ‘alone?’”
“Why,” answered Lady Roseville, “I fear we may have two or three people with us; but I think, Ellen, we may promise our chevalier, that the number shall not exceed twelve.”
I bowed and rode on. What worlds would I not have given to have touched the hand of the countess’s companion, though only for an instant. But—and that fearful but, chilled me, like an ice-bolt. I put spurs to my horse, and dashed fiercely onwards. There was rather a high wind stirring, and I bent my face from it, so as scarcely to see the course of my spirited and impatient horse.
“What ho, Sir!—what ho!” cried a shrill voice—“for God’s sake, don’t ride over me before dinner, whatever you do after it!”
I pulled up. “Ah, Lord Guloseton! how happy I am to see you; pray forgive my blindness, and my horse’s stupidity.”
“‘Tis an ill wind,” answered the noble gourmand, “which blows nobody good. An excellent proverb, the veracity of which is daily attested; for, however unpleasant a keen wind may be, there is no doubt of its being a marvellous whetter of that greatest of Heaven’s blessings—an appetite. Little, however, did I expect, that besides blowing me a relish for my saute de foie gras, it would also blow me one who might, probably, be a partaker of my enjoyment. Honour me with your company at dinner to-day.”
“What saloon will you dine in, my Lord Lucullus?” said I, in allusion to the custom of the epicure, by whose name I addressed him.