"You did not write," said Willoughby.
"Because it was a toss-up of a run to Ireland or here, and I came here not to go there; and, by the way, fetched a jug with me to offer up to the gods of ill-luck; and they accepted the propitiation."
"Wasn't it packed in a box?"
"No, it was wrapped in paper, to show its elegant form. I caught sight of it in the shop yesterday and carried it off this morning, and presented it to Miss Middleton at noon, without any form at all."
Willoughby knew his friend Horace's mood when the Irish tongue in him threatened to wag.
"You see what may happen," he said to Clara.
"As far as I am in fault I regret it," she answered.
"Flitch says the accident occurred through his driving up the bank to save you from the wheels."
"Flitch may go and whisper that down the neck of his empty whisky-flask," said Horace De Craye. "And then let him cork it."
"The consequence is that we have a porcelain vase broken. You should not walk on the road alone, Clara. You ought to have a companion, always. It is the rule here."