He seemed quite regardless of the mischief he had created; and, reflecting upon how it served his purpose, he might well be. Intemperate lover, of the ancient pattern, that he was, his aim to win the woman acknowledged no obstacle in the means. Her pitiable position appealed to the best of him; his inordinate desire of her aroused the worst. It was, besides, an element of his coxcombry, that he should, in apeing the utterly inconsiderate, rush swiftly to impersonate it when his passions were cast on a die.
Weyburn he ignored as a stranger, an intruder, an inferior.
Aminta's chariot was at the gate.
She had to resign herself to the chances of a clash of men, and, as there were two to one, she requested help of Weyburn's hand, that he might be near her.
A mounted gentleman, smelling parasite in his bearing, held the bridle of Morsfield's horse.
The ladies having entered the chariot, Morsfield sprang to the saddle, and said: 'You, sir, had better stretch your legs to the inn.'
'There is room for you, Mr. Weyburn,' said Aminta.
Mrs. Pagnell puffed.
'I can't think we've room, my dear. I want that bit of seat in front for my feet.'
Morsfield kicked at his horse's flanks, and between Weyburn and the chariot step, cried: 'Back, sir!'