“Why not make it a royal progress?” said Sir Harvey. “Her Majesty the Queen might like it well.”
“Her Majesty likes everything that promises amusement,” said the wild romp; “come, Charley, give us your arm.
“No, I 've got a letter or two to write,” said he, rudely; “there 's Upton or Jennings quite ready for any foolery.”
“This is too bad!” cried she; and through all the pantomime of mock royalty, a real tear rose to her eyes, and rolled heavily down her cheek; then, with a sudden change of humor, she said, “Mr. Cashel, will you take me?”
The request was too late, for already he had given his arm to Lady Janet,—an act of devotion he was performing with the expression of a saint under martyrdom.
“Sir Harvey,—there's no help for it,—we are reduced to you.”
But Sir Harvey was leaving the room with Olivia Kenny-feck. In fact, couples paired off in every direction; the only disengaged cavalier being Sir Andrew MacFarline, who, with a sardonic grin on his features, came hobbling forward, as he said,—
“Te maunna tak sich long strides, Missy, if ye ga wf me, for I've got a couple o' ounces of Langredge shot in my left knee—forbye the gout in both ankles.”
“I say, Jim,” called out Lord Charles, as she moved away, “if you like to ride Princepino this afternoon, he's-ready for you.”
“Are you going?” said she, turning her head.