“My cousin, Kate Marsden, my sister Alice, and a gent, name unknown,” observed Hazlehurst, as his eyes fell upon the trio. “Why, surely it is—no, it can’t be—yes it is, Horace D’Almayne.”
“Allowing, merely for the sake of argument, that it is the individual you mention, who may he happen to be?” inquired Harry, taking up the whip which had hitherto reposed innocuously between them, and performing rash feats with it over the ears of “My old Aunt Sally”—(for so in honour of the Ethiopian Serenaders, then in the zenith of their popularity, had Harry named his new favourite).
“My dear fellow, you don’t mean to say that you never heard of him? Not to know Horace D’Almayne argues yourself unknown; why, man, he is a noted wit, a successful poet, the greatest dandy, and the most incorrigible male flirt about town: knows everybody, has been everywhere, and done everything.”
“What is he like across a stiff line of country, and how many brace can he bag to his own gun?” inquired Harry drily.
“Not knowing can’t say,” was the rejoinder, “but that’s not at all in his way; he affects, if it is affectation, the man of sentiment; however, just now he is believed in to the fullest extent, and considered a regular lion.”
“A regular tiger, I should have fancied rather,” was the cynical reply. “Why, the brute actually wears moustaches.”
“He has served in the Austrian army, and sports the mouse-tails on the strength of his military pretensions,” was the reply.
After a minute’s pause, Coverdale observed, inquiringly, “I suppose we must needs pull up and do the civil by these good people.”
“Why, considering that I have not seen my sister for the last five months, family affection (to say nothing of the duties of society) demands the sacrifice,” returned Hazlehurst.
“Cut it short then, there’s a good fellow, the mare’s too hot to be allowed to stand long, and I would not have anything go wrong with her after the splendid manner in which she has brought us to-day, for three times the money I gave for her.”