As dinner proceeded, the sporting characters carried the day. The ouverture de la chasse, which was to take place the following morning, was an all-engrossing topic, and I found myself established as judge on a hundred points of English jockey etiquette, of which as my ignorance was complete I suffered grievously in the estimation of the company, and, when referred to, could neither apportion the weight to age, nor even tell the number of yards in a ‘distance.’ It was, however, decreed that I should ride the next day—the host had the ‘very horse to suit me’; and, as the abbé whispered me to consent, I acceded at once to the arrangement.
When we adjourned to the drawing-room, Colonel Muddleton came towards me with an easy smile and an outstretched snuff-box, both in such perfect keeping: the action was a finished thing.
‘Any relation, may I ask, of a very old friend and brother officer of mine, General Mark O’Leary, who was killed in Canada?’ said he.
‘A very distant one only,’ replied I.
‘A capital fellow, brave as a lion, and pleasant. By Jove, I never met the like of him! What became of his Irish property?—he was never married, I think?’
‘No, he died a bachelor, and left his estates to my uncle; they had met once by accident, and took a liking to each other.’
‘And so your uncle has them now?’
‘No; my uncle died since. They came into my possession some two or three years ago.’
‘Eh—ah—upon my life!’ said he, with something of surprise in his manner; and then, as if ashamed of his exclamation, and with a much more cordial vein than at first, he resumed: ‘What a piece of unlooked-for good fortune to be sure! Only think of my finding my old friend Mark’s nephew!’
‘Not his nephew. I was only——’