“It's the old adage of the ill wind,” said Tony, laughing.
“How so? What do you mean?”
“I mean that your ill-luck is our good fortune; for as you can't go to Tilney, you'll have to stay the longer with us.”
Skeffy seized his hand and gave it a cordial shake, and the two young fellows looked fully and frankly at each other, as men do look before the game of life has caught too strong a hold upon their hearts, and taught them over-anxiety to rise winners from it.
“Now, then, for your chateau,” said Skeffy, as he leaped up on the car, already half hidden beneath his luggage.
“Our chateau is a thatched cabin,” said Tony, blushing in spite of all his attempts to seem at ease. “It is only a friend would have heart to face its humble fare.”
Not heeding, if he even heard the remark, Skeffy rattled on about everything,—past, present, and future; talked of their jolly dinner at Richmond, and of each of their companions on that gay day; asked the names of the various places they passed on the road, what were the usual fortunes of the proprietors, how they spent them; and, seldom waiting for the answer, started some new query, to be forgotten in its turn.
“It is a finer country to ride over,” said Tony, anxious to say something favorable for his locality, “than to look at. It is not pretty, perhaps, but there's plenty of grass, and no end of stone walls to jump, and in the season there's some capital trout-fishing too.”
“Don't care a copper for either. I'd rather see a new pantomime than the best stag-hunt in Europe. I 'd rather see Tom Salter do the double spring backwards than I 'd see them take a whale.”
“I 'm not of your mind, then,” said Tony. “I 'd rather be out on the hillside of a dull, good-scenting day,—well mounted, of course,—and hear the dogs as they rushed yelping through the cover.”