“Major’s washerwoman, sir,” said the dragoon promptly.
“Then you can call at River’s for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?”
“No; not going.”
“Isn’t she going?”
“No.”
“Never mind; you’d better come. Denville’s pretty sister will be there.”
“Phew! Will she?” said Sir Matthew, whistling. “I say, mind what you’re about. There may be a row.”
“Not there. I shan’t notice her; and if I did, Denville’s all right. We’re the best of friends now.”
“But are you sure she’s coming?”
“Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man.”