Whither should he go, then? Not back to London--that was impossible. The week or two he had passed there had thoroughly sickened him of London for some time to come. Paris? No, he thought not! The bals d'opéra would be on then,--Frisotte and Rigolette, Celestine and Mogador, Brididi and the Reine Pomaré--O yes, he knew it all; it was a very long time since those exercitations of the cancan, rebuked by the sergents-de-ville in a low grumble of "Pas si fort! pas si fort! point du télégraphe!" had afforded him the slightest pleasure. Leicestershire? No, though he had purchased Sir Launcelot, and from merely that short experience of him at Acton, felt sure that he would "show them the way"--no, not Leicestershire this year, he thought, nor anywhere else, unless he went down to Knockholt to see his father. Yes, by Jove! he ought to have done that long since, and now he would do it at once.
He settled this in his own mind as he was dressing for dinner about a week after the winter picnic. Settled it not without long deliberation and a little sleep, for he began to give the matter his careful consideration after returning from a long day's shooting; and it was not until he had steamed and lathered himself in a warm bath, had pulled the little sofa in front of the fire, and was contemplating his evening clothes neatly arranged on an adjacent chair, that he began to consider the question. His deliberation involved the putting up of his feet on the sofa, and that proceeding caused him at once to drop helplessly off to sleep, only to be roused by the loud clanging of the second dinner-bell.
An addition accrued to the dinner-party that day, in the persons of Sir Thomas Hayter, a country neighbour, his wife and daughter. Sir Thomas was a hearty old Tory country squire, who during his one season in London had been captivated by and had married her ladyship; at the time of her marriage a passée beauty, now a thin chip of an old woman, still affecting girlish airs. Miss Hayter was a fine, fresh, dashing, exuberant girl, inclined to flirting, and fulfilling her inclination thoroughly. They infused a little new life into the party; for though Sir Thomas did not talk a great deal, he listened to everything that was said, and threw in an occasional "Ha! dear me!" with great vigour and effect, while Lady Hayter chirped away to Sir Charles Mitford, asking him about all sorts of London people of whom he had never heard, and quite bewildering him with her volubility. She succeeded better with Mr. Hammond, whose health was fast improving in the soft Devon air, and who, in spite of the strongly-expressed opinion of his wife, had come down to dinner that day. He was seated next to Lady Hayter; and shortly after dinner commenced, he found out that he had known her before her marriage, when she was Miss Fitzgibbon; "used to have the pleasure of meeting you at the Silvesters' in South Audley Street;" and then they entered upon a very long conversation about the acquaintances of their youth, while all the time each was stealing covert glances at the other, and wondering how it was possible--she, that that cadaverous, parchment-faced, bent invalid could be the handsome boy who in those days had just come up from Haileybury, and was going to India with such good prospects; he, that the old woman with the palpably-dyed purple hair, the scraggy neck, and the resplendent teeth--the gold springs of which were so very visible--could have been Emily Fitzgibbon, about whose beauty every one was raving in '25. Miss Hayter too was very happy; she was immensely taken by Laurence Alsager, next to whom she was seated. She had heard of him often; and two years before, when she was in London, he had been pointed out to her at the Opera; and she, then a young lady of seventeen, had gone home and written about him in her diary, and drawn portraits of him in her blotting-book, and thought him the handsomest creature in the world. She told him this, not of course in so many words, but with that charming quiet way of paying a compliment which some well-bred women possess; and she had also heard of the catastrophe with the ponies at Acton, and of his gallant conduct.
"For it was very gallant, you know, Colonel Alsager; any one could see that, even through that ridiculous newspaper report; and it was a splendid jump too. I was talking about it the other day to my cousin Fred Rivers, who knows you, I think; and he said he'd seen the place, and Mr. ----, I forget his name; the head man up there--said it was as fine a thing as ever was done in Leicestershire; and Fred said he thought so too; 'bar none,' he said, in that sporting way, don't you know, which he has of talking."
"You make a great deal too much of it, Miss Hayter," said Laurence, smiling; "I've seen Fred Rivers take many such jumps himself, for a better horseman never crossed country."
"Ah, yes, during a run, I daresay; but this was in cold blood, wasn't it?--not that I wonder at your doing anything for Lady Mitford. Isn't she lovely? I declare I never saw such a perfect face in my life."
Alsager was about to answer, when Major Maxse spoke from the other side of the table, "Oh, by the way, Colonel Alsager, what Miss Hayter was saying reminds me that you ought not to have driven that day we went to Egremont; you should have gone on horseback. There's a very neat country if you do but know it."
"Did you drive over, Colonel Alsager?" asked Miss Hayter in astonishment.
"Yes; I drove Lady Mitford in her pony-phaeton." ("Oh!" in a subdued tone from Miss Hayter.) "Sir Charles was the only one who rode."
"And Mrs. Hammond,--I beg your pardon, and Mrs. Hammond!" said Major Winton, the first words he had spoken since he sat down to dinner. "I too was on horseback, but I can scarcely be said to have ridden. But, coming back, they went away splendidly. I never saw anything better than the manner in which the first fence was cleared by them both. I daresay it was as good all over the course; but they got away after the first, and we never saw any more of them."