“Miss Royston!” exclaimed Tuke aghast.
“Oh, sir!” responded the lady frigidly, “’twould argue a certain community of interests that hardly exists, did I permit myself the familiarity of an informal intrusion upon your privacy. But I can be quite happy here, if you will vouchsafe me the society of Mr. Whimple, who will take no advantage, I am sure, of my condescension, and who will not judge frankness to be an invitation to impertinence.”
She capped this with quite an enigmatical little smile.
“Or, if you desire his services for yourself,” she said, “I can order out my horse and return to ‘Chatters.’”
Sir David was softly chuckling, preliminary to a sad explosion of laughter. Tuke saw it, and hastily put in a word.
“I beg you will not disappoint me of your promised company to dinner. You are very welcome to what you ask; and your brother and I will hunt in company.”
He bowed, drew the little man from the room and to the far end of the passage without. There the latter suddenly detained him, his swollen face falling to an expression of great gravity.
“Lookee here,” he said, “I am in the dark—I am in the dark, Tuke. Will you take it friendly if I ask you to enlighten me. Are ye vexed wi’ the wench’s whimsies?”
“I am distressed to have offended her.”
“That won’t serve. I don’t want to force your hand, and Angel hath the wit to play her own game. But, d’you seek my countenance? There’s the rub.”