"I don't think about it," said Richard, all his faculties bent on signs from Lobourne.
"Well, but," Ripton persisted, "suppose we are found out?"
"If we are, I must pay for it."
Sir Austin breathed the better for this reply. He was beginning to gather a clue to the dialogue. His son was engaged in a plot, and was, moreover, the leader of the plot. He listened for further enlightenment.
"What was the fellow's name?" inquired Ripton.
His companion answered, "Tom Bakewell."
"I'll tell you what," continued Ripton. "You let it all clean out to your cousin and uncle at supper.—How capital claret is with partridge- pie! What a lot I ate!—Didn't you see me frown?"
The young sensualist was in an ecstasy of gratitude to his late refection, and the slightest word recalled him to it. Richard answered him:
"Yes; and felt your kick. It doesn't matter. Rady's safe, and uncle never blabs."
"Well, my plan is to keep it close. You're never safe if you don't.—I never drank much claret before," Ripton was off again. "Won't I now, though! claret's my wine. You know, it may come out any day, and then we're done for," he rather incongruously appended.