Evan started from his trance.
“It’s you, Harrington?”
“Yes, Harry.”
“Sir!” exclaimed that youth, evidently flushed with wine, “what the devil do you mean by addressing me by my Christian name?”
Laxley pushed his horse’s head in front of Harry. In a manner apparently somewhat improved by his new dignity, he said: “We have ridden to Lymport to speak to you, sir. Favour me by moving a little ahead of the lodge.”
Evan bowed, and moved beside him a short way down the lane, Harry following.
“The purport of my visit, sir,” Laxley began, “was to make known to you that Miss Jocelyn has done me the honour to accept me as her husband. I learn from her that during the term of your residence in the house, you contrived to extract from her a promise to which she attaches certain scruples. She pleases to consider herself bound to you till you release her. My object is to demand that you will do so immediately.”
There was no reply.
“Should you refuse to make this reparation for the harm you have done to her and her family,” Laxley pursued, “I must let you know that there are means of compelling you to it, and that those means will be employed.”
Harry, fuming at these postured sentences, burst out: