“You 'd lose your money, then,” said Maitland; “at least, if I was rogue enough to take you up.”
“You must be one of the best shots in Europe, then!”
“No; they call me second in the Tyrol. Hans Godrel is the first We have had many matches together, and he has always beaten me.”
The presence of a royal prince would not have inspired Tony with the same amount of respect as these few words, uttered negligently and carelessly; and he measured the speaker from head to foot, recognizing for the first time his lithe and well-knit, well-proportioned figure.
“I 'll be bound you are a horseman, too?” cried Tony.
“If you hadn't praised my shooting, I 'd tell you that I ride better than I shoot.”
“How I 'd like to have a brush across country with you!” exclaimed Tony, warmly.
“What easier?—what so easy? Our friend Sir Arthur has an excellent stable; at least, there is more than one mount for men of our weight I suspect Mark Lyle will not join us; but we 'll arrange a match,—a sort of home steeple-chase.”
“I 'd like it well,” broke in Tony, “but I have no horses of my own, and I 'll not ride Sir Arthur's.”
“This same independence of ours has a something about it that won't let us seem very amiable, Mr. Maitland,” said the old lady, smiling.