“L'Estrange shall go, at all events,” cried Augustus. “The Church shall represent the laity.”
“I 'm not in trim to enter a drawing-room, Miss Bramleigh,” said the curate, blushing. “I would n't dare to present myself in such a costume.”
“I declare,” said Jack, “I think it becomes you better than your Sunday rig; don't you, Nelly?”
“Papa will be greatly disappointed, Mr. L'Estrange, if he should not see you,” said she, rising to leave the room; “he wants to hear all about your day's sport, and especially about that poor Frenchman. Do you know his name?”
“Yes, here's his card;—Anatole de Pracontal.”
“A good name,” said Temple, “but the fellow himself looks a snob.”
“I call that very hard,” said Jack, “to say what any fellow looks like when he is covered with slush and dirt, his hat smashed, and his mouth full of mud.”
“Don't forget that we expect to see you,” said Ellen, with a nod and a smile to the curate, and left the room.
“And who or what is Mr. Longworth?” said Temple.
“I never met him. All I know is, that he owns that very ugly red-brick house, with the three gables in front, on the hill-side as you go towards Newry,” said Augustus.