“Am I that” cried Miss Royston. “Then I must be angélique glacée. But my poor bréviaire, that I cried to have lost! Had I had that charm with me, no accident would have befallen.”
“But fifty others failed to save you,” said the baronet, with a low bow, and, it must be admitted, considerable gallantry; for his back was yet stiff with dipping for the abominable trinket.
And at this point Sir David entered the room.
His sister ran at him, and scolded him with twenty little tricks of endearment.
“Sure, sir,” she cried, “this is pretty behaviour to your guests!”—and she came forward on his arm, mutely daring slander to deny perfection to so beautiful a couple.
The little gentleman was charmed to meet his new neighbour, and said so with amazing condescension. He was very daintily attired, and prodigal of self-important courtesy to all.
“I passed your fellow,” he said, “hob-nobbin’ with a gipsy hag. I know the witch by sight. He caught me up later, and we fell a-talkin’. We’ve been neighbours, you know, ever since I can remember. There’s no beast-leech like him in all the county.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Tuke dryly.
“You’d not think it, eh? It’s truth, sir. Why,” said the baronet, “I don’t s’pose the fellow’s ever fired a fowling-piece in his life; but he knows more of the habits of animals, ground and winged, than any dozen sportsmen in the parish. Ain’t that so, Charlie?”
“That’s so, by Gad, Davy,” said the squireen addressed, greatly stimulated and emboldened by the presence of his host.