“You must present our compliments,” said Darcy, hastily, “and say that a very particular engagement will prevent our having the pleasure of receiving his visit this evening.”
“This is really intolerable,” said Lady Eleanor, who, never much disposed to look favorably on that gentleman, felt his present appearance anything but agreeable.
“You hear what your master says,” said Helen to the old man, who, never having in his whole life received a similar order, felt proportionately astonished and confused.
“Tell Mr. Dempsey we are very sorry; but—”
“For all that, he won't be denied,” said Paul, himself finishing the sentence, while, passing unceremoniously in front of Tate, he walked boldly into the middle of the room. His face was flushed, his forehead covered with perspiration, and his clothes, stained with dust, showed that he had come off a very long and fast walk. He wiped his forehead with a flaring cotton handkerchief, and then, with a long-drawn puff, threw himself back into an arm-chair.
There was something so actually comic in the cool assurance of the little man, that Darcy lost all sense of annoyance at the interruption, while he surveyed him and enjoyed the dignified coolness of Lady Eleanor's reception.
“That's the devil's own bit of a road,” said Paul, as he fanned himself with a music-book, “between this and Coleraine. Whenever it 's not going up a hill, it's down one. Do you ever walk that way, ma'am?”
“Very seldom indeed, sir.”
“Faith, and I 'd wager, when you do, that it gives you a pain just here below the calf of the leg, and a stitch in the small of the back.”
Lady Eleanor took no notice of this remark, but addressed some observation to Helen, at which the young girl smiled, and said, in a whisper,—