“I know that neighborhood tolerably well. May I ask the name of your future host?”
“The Knight of Gwynne is his title—Mr. Darcy—”
“Oh! an old acquaintance,—I may almost say an old friend of mine,” said the other, smiling. “And so you are going to pass some time at Gywnne?”
“A week or so; I scarcely think I can spare more.”
“They 'll call that a very inhospitable visit at Gwynne, sir; the Knight's guests rarely stay less than a month. I have just left it, and there were some there who had been since the beginning of the partridge-shooting, and not the least welcome of the party.”
“I am sorry I had not the good fortune to meet you there,” said Forester.
“Make your visit a fortnight, and I 'll join you, then,” said the old man, gayly. “I 'm going up to town to settle a wager,—a foolish excursion, you 'll say, at my time of life; but it's too late to mend.”
“The horses is put to, sir,” said the waiter, announcing the fact for something like the fourth time, without being attended to.
“Well, then, it is time to start. Am I to take it as a pledge that I shall find you at Gwynne this day fortnight?”
“I cannot answer for my host,” said Forester, laughing.