“That’s right. I’m so glad, for I do want her back very badly.”
“Breakfast!—something solid, and less talk,” shouted Mr Elthorne loudly, and the meal progressed, the head of the house leading the conversation, and always to one topic—his new horse.
Chapter Four.
The New Horse.
“Well, Isabel,” said Neil, in an undertone, as his father was loudly debating with Sir Cheltnam some vital question in which bits, bridles, and surcingles were mentioned again and again.
“Well, Neil, dear,” said the girl archly; “why do you keep looking out of the window? It is not Saxa’s time yet.”
“Thank goodness!” he said to himself. Then aloud: “Facetious this morning, eh? Two can play at that, as we used to say when I was at home. Which is it to be—Sir Cheltnam or the sailor boy?” The arch expression passed away from Isabel’s countenance on the instant. She gave a frightened glance round the table, as if dreading that the brother’s words had been overheard, and then, bending down over her cup, she whispered:
“Don’t, please, Neil, dear. You hurt me when you talk like that.”