“Was that all that passed between you?” she inquired.
“Not quite. He wanted me to go with him to Barnet—was it Barnet? on a coach driven by a friend of his, a Captain Cullen—Hullen——”
“Captain Mullen,” Isabel corrected, much amused. “He is a first-rate whip. Why didn’t you go? It would have been delightful.”
“I’m afraid the company would have been rather too military for my tastes. Besides, I told him I was coming to see you. He begged me to——”
“To do what?”
“Nay, he himself paused at the ‘to’; the rest I was doubtless to understand. I presume from his manner that I was to present his respects to you.”
“Our friend Colonel Stratton,” Isabel explained to Kingcote, “is habitually at a loss for words. He really is the shyest man I ever knew. I tease him dreadfully, and I don’t think he minds it a bit.”
“Coach-driving,” remarked Robert. “Singular taste that. One is disposed to suggest hereditary influences.”
Kingcote rose.
“Must you go?” Isabel asked.