"To try his fortune in the world, as the best of us do, though livery runs after us to tell us there's no being an independent gentleman, and comes a cold day we haul on the metal-button coat again, with a good ha! of satisfaction. You'll do the popular thing. Miss Middleton joins in the pleading."
"No pleading!"
"When I've vowed upon my eloquence, Willoughby, I'd bring you to pardon the poor dog?"
"Not a word of him!"
"Just one!"
Sir Willoughby battled with himself to repress a state of temper that put him to marked disadvantage beside his friend Horace in high spirits. Ordinarily he enjoyed these fits of Irish of him, which were Horace's fun and play, at times involuntary, and then they indicated a recklessness that might embrace mischief. De Craye, as Willoughby had often reminded him, was properly Norman. The blood of two or three Irish mothers in his line, however, was enough to dance him, and if his fine profile spoke of the stiffer race, his eyes and the quick run of the lip in the cheek, and a number of his qualities, were evidence of the maternal legacy.
"My word has been said about the man," Willoughby replied.
"But I've wagered on your heart against your word, and cant afford to lose; and there's a double reason for revoking for you!"
"I don't see either of them. Here are the ladies."
"You'll think of the poor beast, Willoughby."