“He is new to me—never saw him before. I say, Lucas, who is that tall fellow on Kennyfeck's brown horse—do you know him?”
“Don't know—can't say,” drawled out a very diminutive hussar cornet.
“He has a look of Merrington,” said another, joining the party.
“Not a bit of it; he's much larger. I should n't wonder if he's one of the Esterhazys they've caught. There is one of them over here—a Paul or a Nicholas, of the younger branch;—but here 's Linton, he 'll tell us, if any man can.”
This speech was addressed to a very dapper, well-dressed man of about thirty, mounted on a small thoroughbred pony, whose splashed and heaving flanks bespoke a hasty ride.
“I say, Tom, you met the Kennyfecks,—who was that with them?”
“Don't you know him, my Lord?” said a sharp, ringing voice; “that's our newly-arrived millionnaire,—Roland Cashel, our Tipperary Croesus,—the man with I won't say how many hundred thousands a year, and millions in bank besides.”
“The devil it is—a good-looking fellow, too.”
“Spooney, I should say,” drawled out the hussar, caressing his moustache.
“One need n't be as smart a fellow as you, Wheeler, with forty thousand a year,” said Linton, with a sly glance at the others.