“For ten, Sir Hilton?” cried Simpkins, with a chuckle, and, to the baronet’s surprise, he dropped into a lounge.
“Don’t scold father, uncle,” said the girl, with a little emphasis on the last word, whose effect was to make the gentleman addressed lay his fidgety left hand once more upon his forehead. “I wanted to come, you know.”
“Eh? Very good of you,” said Sir Hilton, politely; “and I shall make a point of telling Lady Lisle how kind and attentive you were at your house during my little indisposition. It was the sun, I feel sure.”
“Ay, you’ve hit it now, Sir Hilton. That’s what it was—the sun.”
“Yes, the sun,” assented Sir Hilton, before turning again smilingly to Molly. “Yes,” he repeated, “I feel sure that Lady Lisle will be most grateful, and that she will call upon you to express her gratitude for the kindness of La Sylphide.”
“Oh! Sir Hilton—” began Molly; but she stopped, for he went off, wandering strangely again at the mention of that word, but only to be brought up short by the trainer.
“There, what did I say, Sir Hilton? You were not fit to go, but you would insist upon coming home.”
“Ah, yes,” cried the baronet, recollecting himself again. “I remember now—I was ill—in bed—there was the doctor—I grew better, and wanted to come home, and the landlord insisted upon bringing his little nurse.”
“That’s right, Sir Hilton.”
“But I didn’t want him, and I don’t want the little nurse; do I, Syd?”