“Isabel, my dear, I am sure Mr Beck will excuse you.”
“Eh? Oh, yes, certainly,” said the visitor with his lips, but with a denial of the words in his eyes.
“Go and put on your riding habit, my dear. Aunt Anne will pour out the coffee.”
“Yes, papa,” said the girl; and she rose, and, after exchanging glances with their visitor, left the room.
“Oh, yes, I’ll pour out the coffee,” said Aunt Anne, changing her seat. “You are very fond of riding, Mr Beck, are you not?”
“Well, ye-es,” said the young man, laughing, and with an apologetic look at his host and friend; “I like it very much, but I always seem such a poor horseman among all these hard riders, and feel as if I ought to congratulate myself when I get back safe.”
“Oh, well,” said Mr Elthorne condescendingly, “you would have the laugh at us if you got us to sea. Did you see anything of Sir Cheltnam?”
“No; I came by the lower road.”
“Here he is—they are, I ought to say,” cried Alison, jumping up and going to the window.
“Eh?” ejaculated Mr Elthorne, rising too, and joining his son at the window to watch a party of three coming across the park at a hard gallop—the party consisting of two ladies and a gentleman, with one of the ladies leading, well back in her saddle, evidently quite at her ease.