‘I will write to my young friend,’ continued the Baronet.
‘Oh, no!’ said Miss Dacre. ‘His Grace’s candour must not be abused. I have no idea of being robbed of my well-earned honours. Sir Tichborne, private conversation must be respected, and the sanctity of domestic life must not be profaned. If the tactics of Doncaster are no longer to be fair war, why, half the families in the Riding will be ruined!’
‘Still,’—said Sir Tichborne.
But Mr. Dacre, like a deity in a Trojan battle, interposed, and asked his opinion of a keeper.
‘I hope you are a sportsman,’ said Miss Dacre to the Duke, ‘for this is the palace of Nimrod!’
‘I have hunted; it was not very disagreeable. I sometimes shoot; it is not very stupid.’
‘Then, in fact, I perceive that you are a heretic. Lord Faulconcourt, his Grace is moralising on the barbarity of the chase.’
‘Then he has never had the pleasure of hunting in company with Miss Dacre.’
‘Do you indeed follow the hounds?’ asked the Duke.
‘Sometimes do worse, ride over them; but Lord Faulconcourt is fast emancipating me from the trammels of my frippery foreign education, and I have no doubt that, in another season, I shall fling off quite in style.’