“Oh, yes, thank you—”
“I beg your pardon with all humility, Miss Dashwood,” said the hussar, in a tone of the most knightly courtesy, “but they are waiting for us.”
“But, Captain Fortescue, you must excuse me one moment more. Mr. Lechmere, will you do me the kindness to find out Sir George? Mr. O’Malley—Mr. Lechmere.” Here she said something in French to her companion, but so rapidly that I could not detect what it was, but merely heard the reply, “Pas mal!”—which, as the lady continued to canvass me most deliberately through her eye-glass, I supposed referred to me. “And now, Captain Fortescue—” And with a look of most courteous kindness to me she disappeared in the crowd.
The gentleman to whose guidance I was entrusted was one of the aides-de-camp, and was not long in finding Sir George. No sooner had the good old general heard my name, than he held out both his hands and shook mine most heartily.
“At last, O’Malley; at last I am able to thank you for the greatest service ever man rendered me. He saved Lucy, my Lord; rescued her under circumstances where anything short of his courage and determination must have cost her her life.”
“Ah, very pretty indeed,” said a stiff old gentleman addressed, as he bowed a most superbly powdered scalp before me; “most happy to make your acquaintance.”
“Who is he?” added he, in nearly as loud a tone to Sir George.
“Mr. O’Malley, of O’Malley Castle.”
“True, I forgot; why is he not in uniform?”
“Because, unfortunately, my Lord, we don’t own him; he’s not in the army.”