“Here, Lady Tilborough—Hetty darling,” he half sobbed, “take me away. I shall have a fit!”
“Be quiet, dear,” she whispered, catching him by the arm. “I shall break down too. Listen—pray listen! The whitewashing of poor old Hilt.”
Poor old Hilt had also clapped his hands to his head, and looked for a moment as if his horrible fit of semi-delirium was returning and the drug he had taken about to resume its sway.
“Here—water!” he cried. “No—no, I think I understand. Here, Syd, my boy, is this all true?”
“Yes, uncle, it’s true enough; and I’m proud of her.”
“So am I, Syd—so am I. Hooray! Bless you, my boy! Bless you, too, my pretty little darling!” he cried, catching Molly in his arms and kissing her roundly again and again, while the pretty, childish-looking little thing clasped him round the neck, smiled in his face, and replied with a sharp, chirruping smack.
“Hilton!” cried Lady Lisle.
“But it’s Syd’s wife, my dear.”
“Yes, my lady,” cried the trainer, “and she’s got her rights.”
“Rights? Right,” corrected Sir Hilton, taking Molly’s hand, and tucking it under his arm, to drag her shivering before the fierce-looking sharer of his joys.