“No, no. I’m ill and faint, and it’s horrible to see you like this.”
“Yes; not much of a macaroni now.”
“We—we were afraid you were dead.”
“No; but I had a narrow squeak for my life. I and two more officers escaped and rode for London. I only got here yesterday, dressed like this, hoping to see you; but you did not come out.”
“No; this is the first time I have been here since you left. How is the wound?”
“Oh, pooh! that’s well enough. Bit stiff, that’s all. I say, is it all real?”
“What?”
“Me being here dressed like this.”
“Oh, it’s horrible.”
“Not it. Better than being chopped short, or hung. I am glad you’ve come. I want to talk to you about your father and mine. They’ll be in town to-morrow, I should say.”