“No, sir,” said Tate, almost overpowered at the irreverence of his questioner.
“When do you expect him, then,—in an hour or two hours?”
“He 's in England,” said Tate, drawing a long breath.
“In England! What do you mean, old fellow? He has surely not left this lately?”
“Yes, sir, 'twas the King sent for him, I heerd the mistress say.”
A burst of downright laughter from the stranger stopped poor Tate's explanation.
“Why, it's you his Majesty ought to have invited,” cried Mr. Nickie, wiping his eyes, “you yourself, man; devilish fit company for each other you 'd be.”
Poor Tate had not the slightest idea of the grounds on which the stranger suggested his companionship for royalty, but he was not the less insulted at the disparagement of his master thus implied.
“'T is little I know about kings or queens,” growled out the old man, “but they must be made of better clay than ever I seen yet, or they 're not too good company for the Knight of Gwynne.”
After a stare for some seconds, half surprise, half insolence, Nickie said, “You can tell me, perhaps, if this cottage is called 'The Corvy'?”