‘Jump in,’ Fleetwood said to his man. ‘We may be five minutes after time, Chummy. I had a longer drive, and had to get married on the way, and—ah, here they are!’
‘Lady coming?’
‘I fancy she sticks to the coach; I don’t know her tastes. Madge must see her through it, that’s positive.’
Potts deferred his astonishment at the things he was hearing and seeing, which were only Fleetwood’s riddles. The fight and the bets rang every other matter out of his head. He beheld the lady, who had come down from the coach like a columbine, mount it like Bean-stalk Jack. Madge was not half so clever, and required a hand at her elbow.
After, giving hurried directions to Rundles, the landlord of the Royal Sovereign, Fleetwood took the reins, and all three gentlemen touched hats to the curtseying figure of Mrs. Rundles.
‘You have heard, I dare say—it’s an English scene,’ he spoke, partly turning his face, to Carinthia; ‘particularly select to-day. Their Majesties might look on, as the Caesars did in Rome. Pity we can’t persuade them. They ought to set the fashion. Here we have the English people at their grandest, in prime condition, if they were not drunk overnight; and dogged, perfectly awake, magnanimous, all for fair play; fine fellows, upon my word. A little blood, of course.’
But the daughter of the Old Buccaneer would have inherited a tenderness for the sight of blood. She should make a natural Lady Patroness of England’s National Sports. We might turn her to that purpose; wander over England with a tail of shouting riff-raft; have exhibitions, join in them, display our accomplishments; issue challenges to fence, shoot, walk, run, box, in time: the creature has muscle. It’s one way of crowning a freak; we follow the direction, since the deed done can’t be undone; and a precious poetical life, too! You may get as royally intoxicated on swipes as on choice wine; win a name for yourself as the husband of such a wife; a name in sporting journals and shilling biographies: quite a revival of the Peerage they have begun to rail at!
‘I would not wish to leave you,’ said Carinthia.
‘You have chosen,’ said Fleetwood.