Our Duke ordered his horses, and as he rattled along recovered from the enervating effects of his soft reverie. On his way home he fell in with Mr. Dacre and the two Baronets, returning on their hackneys from a hard fought field.
‘Gay sport?’ asked his Grace.
‘A capital run. I think the last forty minutes the most splitting thing we have had for a long time!’ answered Sir Chetwode. ‘I only hope Jack Wilson will take care of poor Fanny. I did not half like leaving her. Your Grace does not join us?’
‘I mean to do so; but I am, unfortunately, a late riser.’
‘Hem!’ said Sir Tichborne. The monosyllable meant much.
‘I have a horse which I think will suit your Grace,’ said Mr. Dacre, ‘and to which, in fact, you are entitled, for it bears the name of your house. You have ridden Hauteville, Sir Tichborne?’
‘Yes; fine animal!’
‘I shall certainly try his powers,’ said the Duke. ‘When is your next field-day?’
‘Thursday,’ said Sir Tichborne; ‘but we shall be too early for you, I am afraid,’ with a gruff smile.
‘Oh, no!’ said the young Duke, who saw his man; ‘I assure you I have been up to-day nearly two hours. Let us get on.’