“Indeed,” said I, “I did not hear of it.”
“We left no cards, either of us, as we were determined to make you out on another day; my companion has most urgent reasons for seeing you. I see you are puzzled,” said he; “and although I promised to keep his secret, I must blab. It was Sir George Dashwood was with me; he told us of your most romantic adventure in the west,—and faith there is no doubt you saved the lady’s life.”
“Was she worth the trouble of it?” said the old major, whose conjugal experiences imparted a very crusty tone to the question.
“I think,” said I, “I need only tell her name to convince you of it.”
“Here’s a bumper to her,” said Power, filling his glass; “and every true man will follow my example.”
When the hip-hipping which followed the toast was over, I found myself enjoying no small share of the attention of the party as the deliverer of Lucy Dashwood.
“Sir George is cudgelling his brain to show his gratitude to you,” said Power.
“What a pity, for the sake of his peace of mind, that you’re not in the army,” said another; “it’s so easy to show a man a delicate regard by a quick promotion.”
“A devil of a pity for his own sake, too,” said Power, again; “they’re going to make a lawyer of as strapping a fellow as ever carried a sabretasche.”
“A lawyer!” cried out half a dozen together, pretty much with the same tone and emphasis as though he had said a twopenny postman; “the devil they are.”