“Yoics, yoics, yoics! I saw it all at Astley's, and they took a gate in rare style. But, I say, what is that tower yonder, topping the trees?”
“That is Lyle Abbey,—Sir Arthur Lyle's place.”
“Lyle,—Lyle. There was such a picture in the Exhibition last year of two sisters, Maud, or Alice, or Bella Lyle, and another, by Watts. I used to go every morning, before I went down to the office, to have a look at them, and I never was quite certain which I was in love with.”
“They are here! they are Sir Arthur's daughters.”
“You don't say so! And do you know them, Tony?”
“As well as if they were my sisters.”
“Ain't I in luck!” cried Skeffy, in exultation. “I'd have gone to Tarnoff,—that's the place Holmes was named consul at,—and wrote back word that it did n't exist, and that the geography fellows were only hoaxing the office! just fancy, hoaxing the office! Hulloa!—what have we here? A four-horse team, by all that's stunning.”
“Mrs. Trafford's. Draw up at the side of the road till they pass, Peter,” said Tony, hurriedly. The servant on the box of the carriage had, however, apparently announced Tony Butler's presence, for the postilions slackened their pace, and came to a dead halt a few paces in front of the car.
“My mistress, sir, would be glad to speak to you,” said the servant, approaching Tony.
“Is she alone, Coles?” asked he, as he descended from the car.