“Does any one know his name, though?” said the major, as he held his glass to be filled.
“Yes, it's something like—Oh, you know that fellow that joined us at Coventry?”
“Brereton, is it?”
“No, hang it! I mean the fellow that had the crop-eared cob with the white legs. Never mind, here he goes, anyhow.”
“Oh, I know who you mean,—it was Jack Quin.”
“That's the name; and your friend here is called 'Gwynne,' I think. Here, gentlemen, I give you Gwynne's health, and all the honors; may he live a few centuries more—”
“With a warm heart and a cool cellar,” added one.
“Pink champagne, and red-coats to drink it,” chimed in the ensign.
“May I join you in that pleasant sentiment, gentlemen?” said the Knight, bowing courteously, as he took a glass from the tray and held it towards the servant.
“Make no apology, sir,” said the major, eying him rather superciliously, for the travelling dress concealed the Knight's appearance, and distinguished him but slightly from many of those lounging around the doors.